


Self Inflicted

by WinJennster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinJennster/pseuds/WinJennster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds a knife in a thrift store and it changes his life. Is it a cursed object or something far more insidious? Not a DeathFic. NO SLASH! Some potty mouth and sensitive material, will be gory in places. Dark.</p><p>(Takes place in Season 5, post My Bloody Valentine.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever multi-chap SPN fic. I look back now and think about all the ways I screwed it up. I was very very new to the fandom. So there are definite canonical mistakes. Still, it's the fist one I actually completed, so here it is.  
> Enjoy!!

Prolouge

He’d read somewhere, he couldn’t remember where, that suicide- by-knife victims usually had small cuts around the large incision, where hesitation had caused them to think twice about what they were doing. 

It wouldn’t be an issue for him. He had cut himself many times before, usually to provide blood for some ritual, and had never had any trouble slicing himself then, so it wouldn’t be a problem now. 

The one thing that was giving him pause, however, was the bound man on the floor. Fear lit the man’s eyes, and that triggered some sort of feeling. He just couldn’t remember. Nor did he care.

He knew he was tired. Sick of the fight that had already taken too much from him. He had to do this, despite the other man’s protests. 

Checking the syringe in his hand, he knelt beside the other man, preparing to deliver the fatal dose of morphine. There had been plenty in the first aid kit in the big black car, and he was sure it would do the trick. 

“Dean. Dean please don’t do this.” The man on the floor was begging him. He had tears in his huge hazel eyes. The other man felt…nothing. 

Well, almost nothing. The twinge he had felt earlier was there again, but still not enough to stop him. He needed to do this. He would make it quick. Drug the man on the floor, and quickly drag the knife across his own wrists. It would be quick. Almost painless.

But why? Why was he doing this? He wished for a clue, something other than the driving need to end his and the other man’s lives. He knew their lives were inexplicably intertwined, knew that everything in his past, everything he did, hell, everything he was, had something to do with the man on the floor.

He couldn’t remember the man’s name, he couldn’t remember his own name, but he knew they were both destined to die, and to die together. 

He just didn’t know why.

 

                                                                


	2. Chapter 2

“Dude! DUDE! Check it out!” Dean Winchester held up the box and grinned at his brother Sam. “Treasure!!”

“Seriously? More cassettes?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“You know my baby only plays tapes, so shut your cakehole.”

 “Well, you could let me convert all that stuff to digital and put it on an iPod for you…” Sam trailed off as caught sight of the fiery glare coming from his brother. “Was just an idea”, he muttered as he moved over to check the thrift store’s jeans selection. Sam was in desperate need of some new jeans, as he was currently wearing the last pair he owned without major holes or blood stains. It was hard enough to find jeans that fit his 6’4” frame in a regular store, let alone a thrift store, and unless he was interested in a pair of polyester bell bottoms, this trip was looking worthless as well.

At least Dean was having fun.

“Dude! Foreigner! Feels like the first time!!” he happily screeched off key. “Feels like the very first time!”

“Like you can even remember the first time”, Sam mumbled.

“What was that Sasquatch?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Moving into another section, he found a pair of ratty cargo pants that looked like they might be just long enough, but a closer inspection revealed a nice big hole in the rear. Sam sighed and thrust them back on the rack. This was beyond frustrating. It amazed him how easy it was for Dean to find pants. His brother was just a few inches shorter, but apparently that made all the difference in the garment industry. “Some guys have all the luck”, he muttered.

“Sonovabitch!”

“What?”

“Look!” Dean held up a battered VCR tape. “The Goonies!”

“What’s a Goonie?” Sam asked innocently. Dean looked astonished.

“What’s a Goo…I don’t know you anymore,” Dean said sadly.  Sam chuckled inwardly. He was well aware of what a Goonie was but Dean’s reaction was so classically “Dean” the feigned confusion was totally worth it. Anything to see something other than that quietly defeated look that had ruled his older brother’s face lately.

Dean, meanwhile, was fairly sure Sam was playing him. Whatever. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He had to admit he was pretty psyched about the tapes. There was some good stuff in that box that he wasn’t currently in possession of. Besides Foreigner, there was some choice Metallica, Megadeth, even some really ancient Judas Priest and Black Sabbath. Deciding to just buy the whole box, Dean set it on the counter and moved on. Thrift stores were always a riot, if for nothing else, the entertainment value of watching his big little brother trying to find clothes to fit his moose-like frame. Not to mention the hilarity of looking at crap people thought wasn’t worth keeping yet acceptable to pass down to someone else. Black velvet Elvis pictures anyone?

Moving further into the back of the store, past Sam who was currently grumbling about leisure suits and the death of disco, Dean found a small section of odd housewares in the far left hand corner. There were all kinds of strange odds and ends, glassware, plates, bowls, even an old silverware chest.

It was the carved wooden box that caught his attention.

About eighteen inches long, about six inches tall, and six inches deep, the battered wooden box was covered in carvings that were vaguely disturbing.

And it was humming.

Dean was sure of it. Just a very low, almost electrical hum. That should have been his first clue not to touch it. But it was calling to him as surely as if the box had whispered his name.  His hands moved forward on their own, carefully releasing the latch on the box. Dean slowly creaked the lid open, aware of nothing around him but the mysterious box and its contents.

Inside, a red satin lining cradled a beautiful knife. A mother of pearl hilt, much like the handle on Dean’s Colt 1911, stood out against dark, almost black, metal. The knife itself was about fifteen inches from blade tip to the end of the hilt.

Pulling the blade from the box, Dean was astonished to feel the knife warm to his touch, like it had been waiting for him. He could swear the knife was happy to see him. And the thought that it was odd that a knife was ‘happy to see him’ never even entered his mind. Examining it closer now, he marveled at the workmanship. The knife had to be old. Ancient maybe, like Ruby’s blade. It definitely had the same kind of alive, supernatural feel to it. And now that it was in his hand, Dean knew he would not be able to leave the store without buying it.

No matter what it cost. He’d sell the Impala for it. Nothing mattered but this knife. It simply had to be his.

“Anything cool back here?” Sam’s voice snapped Dean out of his reverie and the older man jumped. “Whoa, sorry dude. Hey nice knife.”

“Yeah”, Dean replied slowly, never taking his eyes from the blade. “I’m going to buy it.”

“Can we afford it? Looks old, probably expensive too.”

“It doesn’t matter. I want it. I need it.”

“Um. Oookay.” Sam noticed for the first time how Dean’s eyes were locked on the weapon. “Dean, you ok?” Dean stared for a second more, then seemed to snap out it. Scooping up the box on the shelf, he led to way to the checkout counter.

“I’m good Sammy, let’s blow this joint!” Sam stared after him for a second, wanting to ask a question, but not even sure what the question was. He sighed and joined his brother. 


	3. Chapter 3

Screams. The smell of blood. The smell of burning flesh. Unbelievable pain. Insane laughter. Being cut to pieces over and over again.

Nothing solid, just images and flashes.

Fear. Fear so intense, Dean was sure he was back. He couldn’t be back. Cas had gotten him out. Had to be a dream. A nightmare.

‘ _Wake up Winchester_ ’ he ordered himself. ‘ _Wake up, snap out of it_.’ The screams were closer, coupled with the growls and obscenities he had come to associate with the various demons that spent their days tormenting him. The reddish smoky darkness kept him from being able to see clearly, but he could feel clawed hands on his body. Dean’s own hands were numb from tight bindings, and refused to assist him in any way. ‘Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup.’ He chanted over and over in his head. There was just no way he could be here again. The angels needed him; surely he wouldn’t have been carelessly tossed back into the pit.

There was an agonized scream nearby. A sadistic chuckle followed. A voice in his ear.    

“Who knew sweet Sammy screamed as beautifully as you do?”

 

“NOOOOOOO!!!!”

Dean sat straight up in bed, his legs tangled in the sheets. Sam sat up with him, alarmed by the blood curdling scream that had ripped from his brother. He quickly crossed the gap between their beds, surprised that Dean was still asleep, and still fighting the terrors he was seeing in his mind.

“Dean! Dean come on man, wake up!” Sam shook his brother’s shoulders, terrified by the blank, unseeing gaze coming from Dean’s half-open eyes. “Dean! It’s just a dream! Wake up!” Sucking in a mammoth gasp of air, Dean’s eyes opened wide, and he took a swing at his brother, who saw it coming and rolled out of his reach. “Shit, Dean it’s me!” Sam hollered from the floor.

“Sammy?” Dean gasped. “It’s really you?”

“Yeah, who the hell else would it be?” Sam switched on the bedside lamp, and Dean groaned and shaded his eyes with his hand. “Dude you scared the living crap out of me. What the hell was that?”

“Dream. Nightmare. A bad one.” He heard Sam in the bathroom, running water, and then he was back and tucking a cool washcloth on his older brother’s neck.

“Was it a memory?”

“No, this was something that hasn’t happened. Won’t happen,” Dean clarified.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Hell no. Bad enough I’m letting you play nurse with the washcloth.”

“Whatever. Why don’t you lay back down and try to go back to sleep.” Expecting an argument he was rather surprised when Dean compliantly flopped back down onto his belly. He was even more surprised when Dean started snoring about sixty seconds after his head hit the pillow. Sam chuckled. “Well that was easy.” He grabbed the wet washcloth and tossed it in the sink.

Crossing the room, he shut the lamp off and curled up in his own bed. Hoping sleep would find him as quickly, he was disappointed after an hour went by and he found himself still wide awake. Sam had a lot on his mind, and he was finding it harder and harder to find any sleep at all these days. Dean’s dream had shaken him more than he cared to admit. It troubled Sam that Dean refused to let him in, refused to share his pain. Didn’t he know that Sam wanted to share the load? That he was more than willing to prop his brother up and get him through the anguish he was still dealing with? After their last hunt, the brain-sucking wraith in Oklahoma, and then the whole mess with Anna trying to kill them all, it was reasonable that Dean’s emotions would be on edge, fragile even. Sam knew he himself wasn’t 100%. Why would Dean be?                

Especially seeing as how Dean had more than enough to be troubled by. Going to hell had changed Dean, and the things he did there put a terrible weight on his shoulders, but all of Sam's attempts to help Dean bear the weight had failed. Dean seemed determined to do it on his own.

He refused to let Sam in. And Sam knew it was Dean’s way of protecting him, same as he had done since they were children, but why didn’t Dean realize that Sam wanted to protect him too? Why couldn’t he see that Sam wasn’t a chubby little kid anymore? That he was as capable of protecting Dean as Dean was of protecting him? Dean’s going to hell had forced that last little bit of Sammy to grow up. He was an adult, with troubles and failings of his own. God knew he had his own apocalypse related guilt to deal with. Not to mention the constant anger that thrived just below the surface.

On second thought, maybe that was why Dean was shutting him out. Maybe he still didn’t trust his brother.

Sam huffed and tossed in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position that would help him fall asleep. He was almost there when he heard a rustle in the sheets behind him. Dean’s breathing had changed, and Sam realized his brother was silently crying.

 Had he feigned sleep so Sam would leave him alone? Had he been awake this whole time? For the first time in a long time, Sam wished he still had some of the abilities Azazel had forced on him. He would give anything to be able to read Dean’s mind, to know what was going on in there. Wanting so badly to get up and offer comfort, Sam instead stayed in the bed, knowing that if Dean went as far as fake-snoring to keep Sam from knowing how upset he was, then his comfort would definitely not be welcome.

               

Dean was fairly sure Sam was still awake. The nightmare had disturbed him down to his very core. He had never dreamt of Sam being down there with him before tonight. For the past hour he replayed the dream over and over in his mind, grateful that he hadn't been able to see anything. The only thing worse than hearing Sam scream like that would have been seeing him scream. 

After Sam had gone back to his own bed, Dean had laid on his; hoping sleep would claim him as quickly as he pretended it had. The chick flick moments were killing him. He couldn’t stand to cry in front of Sam; and lately, his emotions had been right on the surface. It had been a rough couple of months, the trip to the asylum, Anna’s attempt to snuff out his family, and being told by Famine that he was dead inside…it was all adding up to a very heavy load. And he already had a heavy load. He really didn’t need any more weight.

Then there was the visit to his future self. Watching Lucifer use Sam’s body to kill him had torn Dean apart. He hated the confidence in Lucifer’s eyes as he declared that Sam would say ‘yes’ in Detroit. If only it were as simple a thing as keeping Sam out of Michigan.

As the days went on, Dean was breaking, falling apart piece by piece. He was starting to realize that saying ‘yes’ to Michael would be his only choice in the end. Not that he would actually have a choice when all was said and done.

The ghosts of his past were always there now, when he tried to sleep. His mom, his dad, Jess, Ash, Ellen, Jo, they were all waiting when he closed his eyes. Sometimes, even his future self would be there, begging him again and again to say ‘yes’ to Michael.

Most nights he was lucky to get an hour or two before the nightmares woke him. Most nights he was able to keep Sam from finding out. But tonight, he just couldn’t hold it together. The tears rolled freely out of his tired eyes, and he did everything he could to regulate his breathing. He had to be strong. Strong for Sam.

Because, he knew, if he gave in, Sam would give in. And all would be lost.


	4. Chapter 4

“So I think I found a job,” Sam said over pancakes the next morning. “But it’s in Kansas. Not Lawrence, about an hour away, in of all things, Manhattan. Did you know there’s a Manhattan in Kansas?” He looked up at Dean, who was clearly not paying attention, just staring out the window at the rain beading on the Impala. Sam had gotten a small amount of sleep after Dean’s nightmare but it looked as if his brother hadn’t. There were dark circles under his green eyes, and his face was paler than usual. Dean rested his chin on his left hand, his right hand idly playing with his napkin-wrapped silverware. Sam’s breakfast was half-eaten, Dean hadn’t even touched his.

“Dean?” Nothing. “Dean?” Dean finally turned his head to look at his brother. “Did you hear anything I said?” Dean nodded.

“Kansas, job, New York?” Sam chuckled.

“No, Manhattan, Kansas. It’s where Kansas State is.”

“Oh. Wildcats. I’m a Jayhawks guy. Rock Chalk and all.”

“That’s cause KU is in Lawrence and Dad was a fan, so it just trickled down to you.”

“Whatever.” Dean snorted and took a sip of his coffee, surprised to find it cold. He looked down and noticed that his plate was still full of eggs, hash browns, and bacon. It looked cold too, and the thought of food tossed his stomach. ‘ _All this from a nightmare_?’ he wondered. ‘ _No appetite, I’m exhausted, what a fan-friggin-tastic way to start the day. Give Samantha something else to bitch about_.’ He looked up, not surprised to find Sam’s gaze on him, and Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m fine Sam.”

“You sure? You’re looking a little rough Dude.”

“Not like I really slept last night. Not very hungry either.” Dean shoved the offensive plate to the other side of the table. “So tell me about this job.” Sam sighed and turned his laptop so Dean could see the screen.                                       

“So this walking trail in Manhattan, it runs along the Kansas River, and part of it snakes under an active train trestle. Six kids in two weeks have killed themselves by waiting for the trains. All six locomotive drivers report that the kids appeared to have been pushed onto the tracks, but not one of them saw anyone else with the victims. All the victims were K State students, and all but one was a history major.” Sam paused, made sure Dean was paying attention and continued. “The one non-history major was an anthropology major, so it still sort of fits the pattern.”

“Engineers.”

“What?”

“They don’t call them drivers, they call them Engineers.” Sam raised an eyebrow in a puzzled expression. “Never mind. Ok so invisible force killing history nuts. What’s the history of the area with the bridge? Or is it something to do with the college?” Sam half-smiled, because Dean with a job on the brain was a much easier Dean to deal with than an exhausted Dean.

“Not sure. No real history on hauntings right in that area, no dramatic deaths, and the students were all dean’s list with active social lives. All six of them are described as ‘happy and full of life’. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Which is where we come in, chairmen of the don’t make effin sense club.”

“Right. So off to Kansas then? Up to working a job?”

“Hell yes. I’m ready to do something non-apocalyptic for a change.” Sam powered down his laptop as Dean reached for his wallet. Counting out a few bills, he tossed them on the table and took one last swig of his miserable cold coffee. Grimacing, he hauled himself out of the booth, pausing as a small wave of vertigo washed over him. Dean rested his hand on the table, hoping Sam hadn’t noticed, and pushed out towards the car, keys in hand.

Sam did notice of course. He was still packing up his laptop when he heard the Impala roar to life just outside the diner window. Taking a moment to study his brother, he was concerned to see Dean with his arms folded on the steering wheel, his head resting on them. Dean was fried, Sam could tell. This wasn’t like him at all. And not eating? Even less like Dean.

Sam was worried. He wouldn’t say anything right now, he’d wait and see how things played out, but it was clear to him that Dean was exhausted, and it was probably more than just a lack of sleep. They’d both been through so much lately, but as usual, Dean tried to protect Sam from the worst of it, which meant he was the one bearing the load. 

               

Dean sat in the warmth and security of his baby, laying his head on her steering wheel and making it a point to breathe in, breathe out, the comforting smell of leather enveloping him. There was nowhere else in the world where he felt more at home than right here.  He believed his car had a soul all of her own, and no matter how many times he found comfort in the arms of a woman, his true comfort, his true love, was right here with him now, her sleek metal arms wrapped tightly around him. Sam might occasionally harass him about his unnatural attachment to the Impala. If he only knew. Baby was his safe place.

Suddenly remembering their trip to the thrift store, Dean slid his hand under the driver’s seat and pulled out the carved wooden box.

Mesmerized once more by the faint hum, he again found his hands snaking forward of their own volition. Snapping open the box, he grasped the hilt firmly in his left hand, feeling the amazing warmth flood his hand and wind up his arm.

Holding it out in front of him, he tilted his wrist so the light caught the blade, glittering down the edge and making the mother-of-pearl hilt sparkle. He loved this knife. It was beautiful and felt so very right in his hands. It was a shame it had been sitting in the car all night. He would have probably felt better knowing it was under his pillow.

“Oh wow, I forgot you bought that yesterday. Left it in the car all night?” Sam slid into the passenger seat, reaching one long arm behind him to deposit his computer bag in the back seat. Dean didn’t answer, just stared at the blade in his hand. Sam frowned. “Hello? Kansas? Road trip? You ok Dean?”

Dean stared at the blade a second longer, enjoying the warmth and comfort he usually pulled from his car. The knife just felt so damn good in his grasp. He imagined killing things with it. He wondered if it was old enough, important enough, to kill demons. Wondered again if it was as old as it looked. There was something so incredibly special about this knife. And he would make it his mission to find out exactly what it was that set this knife apart.                            

Smiling pleasantly at Sam, Dean slid the knife back into the case and then slid the case back under the seat. He truly did feel much better now and his eyes sparkled as he grinned at his brother.

“Yup, I’m great, off to Kansas! Auntie Em, Auntie Em!” he threw the Impala into reverse and backed out of the spot, and Sam felt himself tossed back into the seat a bit as Dean punched it out of the parking lot.

“I’ll get you my pretty! And your little dog too!” With a silly witch’s cackle, Dean pointed the Impala west, and put the pedal on the floor.

               


	5. Chapter 5

The ride west was quiet. Dean had one of his new tapes in the deck, but kept the volume low. He didn’t sing along, just stared out the windshield at the unrelenting highway. Sam dozed off and on, feeling guilty each time he woke, knowing Dean needed sleep far more than he did. Oddly enough, Dean seemed to be fine. He was quiet more than was usual, but he seemed to have enough energy to keep rolling. They had been driving for close to twelve hours and Sam couldn’t understand how Dean was even still conscious.

               

Silence was not golden, not right now, and Sam wanted so badly to talk about what had just happened. Another Horseman destroyed by their hands, but at what price? Something had happened to Dean in that restaurant. He wasn’t talking, so all Sam could do was guess, but Famine must have done some dreadful to Dean. In the past few days, the nightmares which had finally abated over the last year seemed to be finding his brother again. He knew Dean was running on about five hours sleep over the course of three days. From where Sam sat in the Impala, he could see the deepening shadows under his brother’s eyes. The loss of appetite was noticeable too. Sam wondered again why Dean thought he didn’t notice.

               

He still didn’t trust him, Sam concluded. Dean still didn’t trust Sam to make the right decisions. And who could blame him? Sam could blame Famine for the demon-blood relapse all he wanted. But Dean had seen him, hopped up and at his scary best, chock full of Ovaltine, in all his destructive-to-demons, and apparently Horsemen, glory. Another round of Demon Detox at Bobby’s and Sam was feeling like himself again.

               

But then, last night, lying in bed, listening to Dean cry, he had felt something inside him tear. Sam wanted so badly to destroy that which was paining his brother. But how do you fight something in someone’s head? Furthermore, how to you help someone who refuses to let you in?

…

Dean pulled into the first small motel they found in Manhattan. It was across from a mall, and seemed to be somewhat in the center of town. He’d dropped Sam off to go in and book a room. His stomach tossed and rolled again. He wasn’t hungry though.

 

_“That’s one deep dark nothing you got there Dean.”_

 

Rolling his eyes at the internal monologue, he fished his silver flask out of his inside jacket pocket.

               

_“And you can’t fill it. Not with food, or drink. Not even with sex.”_

               

Ignoring the mental taunts, he unscrewed the flask’s lid and took a long pull. The whiskey burned the whole way down and he welcomed the heat. Kansas was cold, bleak, and rainy. A bank’s sign flashed the temperature as 21F. Dean had never been a fan of cold weather. Too many hunts that left him flat on his ass in some derelict building, or worse, in the middle of the woods, cold rains that brought on colds or even pneumonia, snow, ice, things Baby’s rear wheel drive never did very well in. Being cold was miserable business.

               

He did, however, always sleep better in cold weather. Dean always thought maybe it had to do with knowing how miserable it was outside, when you were burrowed in the warmth of a hotel room and soft blankets. It was almost a sense of security, a feeling of being safe. He hoped that idea would hold true tonight. Dean was in desperate need of real sleep. He was starting to get that weird, fuzzy edged, slightly delusional feel that he got when he went without sleep for too many days.

               

Sleep he needed. Nightmares he didn’t.

 

…

               

“So I was thinking,” Sam said the next morning at breakfast, “that when we are done with this job, we need to take a few days and just…I don’t know…rest. You look like hell Dean,” he finished bluntly.

               

Dean did look like hell. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. The shadows under his eyes had grown so deep, they resembled bruises. His skin was brutally pale. He looked flat out sick. On top of that, he felt miserable. He had a headache behind his eyes that no amount of Tylenol could knock out. He had tried drinking himself into a coma last night, but even that didn’t work. He had spent the night gradually sobering up and staring at the ceiling of their miserable, damp motel room. Dozing off around 4am, he only lasted about twenty minutes before the screams of his brother on the rack woke him up. Again, he was grateful that the reddish darkness of the place had kept him from seeing anything. Even though it was a dream, seeing Sam tortured was not a mental image he wanted hanging around during the day.

               

Sam was worried. Dean’s head wasn’t in the game. If he had his way, his brother would spend the day at the motel resting while Sam visited K State alone. He had plans to sweet talk his way into accessing the impressive library, hoping to come across some local history, and hopefully finding a connection between the college and the train trestle. If he was being completely honest, the idea of fooling around on a college campus for a few hours intrigued him. It had been a long time since Stanford; Sam thought it might feel good to be in that environment again, even if just for a few hours.

               

But Dean wouldn’t play ball with Sam. He was determined to work the job, and help with the interviews and research. Sam didn’t know how to tell him that his current appearance was going to scare people off. That Dean would be more trouble than help. Studying his brother surreptitiously, he could clearly see Dean reaching the end of his rope. But, what Dean didn’t know was that Sam had Benadryl caplets in his pocket and that he was planning on slipping them into a to-go cup of coffee when they left the restaurant. Hopefully, by the time they walked back to the motel from the Denny’s they were currently sitting in, Dean would be just about ready to pass out.

               

Sam planned on doing some more work on his laptop, hoping the allergy medicine would do the trick and knock his brother out. He knew Dean would be highly irritated later, but hopefully he would be irritated _and_ well rested.

 

…

 

The plan went off without a hitch, and about twenty minutes after they returned to the motel, Sam looked over at Dean, pleased to see him out cold in the middle of his bed. Smiling, Sam went over and took off his brother’s boots, then wiggled him out of his flannel lined denim over shirt. Then he gently undid Dean’s jeans and slid them off as well. Finally, he hooked his hands under his brother’s armpits and pulled his dead weight up to the top of the bed.

               

Pulling the blankets off his own bed, Sam covered his brother, making sure Dean would be good and warm. Dean snuggled into the pillows and rolled onto his belly, letting out a soft snore in the process. Satisfied that Dean was comfortable, and would finally rest, Sam packed up his laptop, and scribbled a quick note, which he left on the table. Grabbing everything he needed for the day, and Dean’s keys, Sam took one last look at his brother, and smiling, let himself out.

 

He was gone about 45 minutes when all hell broke loose.

               

 


	6. Chapter 6

45 minutes. That’s all he got. 45 minutes of deep, restful sleep. He didn’t even remember laying down. Was he even dreaming? This felt so real. So horribly, terrifyingly real.

               

Screams and flashes of hot, desperate pain assaulted his senses. He tried desperately to wake up. Some part of him knew he was dreaming, and Dean focused on that, trying to pull himself up into reality. Dean was trapped in his own subconscious, and the realization that he was only dreaming was slipping further and further away, the nightmare quickly becoming his reality.

               

Sam was screaming somewhere nearby, and Dean closed his eyes tighter. So far he had refused to open them, hoping that keeping them closed would keep the nightmare further away. He was tightly bound again, could feel the bindings cutting into the flesh at his ankles and wrists.

               

Sam screamed again, a raw, animalistic expression of pain and agony, and Dean cursed his helplessness.

               

“Open your eyes Dean,” came a low, lisping drawl near his ear. “Open your pretty, pretty eyes.” Dean’s eyes flew open at the voice, and he couldn’t hide his terror.

               

“Al...Alastair?”

               

“The one and only, Dean my boy. Did you miss me? I sure missed you.” Dean stared up into Alastair’s face. Vessel-less, he wore his true form, something Dean had become accustomed to during his previous stay in hell, but it was unnerving now. Alastair ran a clawed hand along Dean’s jaw line in something resembling a caress, and Dean slammed his eyes shut again and turned his head sharply to avoid him.

 

“Poor boy thinks he’s dreaming. Thinks if he keeps those pretty green eyes closed that all of this will go away. You’re not dreaming boy. I wasn’t done with you, I wanted you back here with me. I missed you so.”

 

“You’re dead. You’re dead. Sam…Sam killed you. Castiel told me. You’re dead.” Dean’s terror reduced his speech to little more than a series of muttered phrases. He was freaking out. His heart rate was accelerating, his breaths short and frantic. Dean was on the verge of a full blown panic attack. By now, the idea of this nightmare being just that, a nightmare, was gone, replaced by terror. This was real to Dean. He was back in Hell, and to make things even worse, Sam was there too.

 

“Sorry to disappoint boy, but Sam’s little Jedi mind trick just shoved me back in here. I am as real as you are.” A flash of hot pain, and Dean realized Alastair was slicing into his abdomen. Dean tried not to scream but he couldn’t help it, as Alastair twisted the knife into his gut. “I am so going to relish having two Winchesters on my rack. Although, I might just let you do a little slicing and dicing yourself, seeing as how you were so very good at it.”

 

Alastair pulled the blade from Dean’s gut, and walked around to his other side. Dean had his eyes determinedly glued shut, and had no intention of opening them again. “Open your eyes Dean.” Alastair’s breath was hot in his ear.

 

“No,” Dean gasped.

 

“Open your eyes Dean,” Alastair continued in a sing-songy voice, “open your eyes or I’ll dig Sammy’s out with an old rusty spoon.” Dean’s eyes flew open at that.

 

“Don’t touch him,” Dean growled. “Keep your filthy clawed mitts off my brother!” Dean struggled against his bindings, howling in fury as he tried to break free.

 

“That’s all it takes huh. Little Sammy is the key to your undoing. If only I had known sooner.” Alastair shoved the blade in angrily this time, not using his usual surgical precision, and hacked out a huge chunk of Dean’s flesh. Dean couldn’t help the screams and the feelings of worthlessness that flooded in. He choked on a sob, wishing it would just end, and felt Alastair’s hot breath in his ear again. “You know what I want. You know what I want you to do. All you have to say, boy, is yes. Just say yes.”

 

“No.” Dean wheezed. Alastair was attacking his chest, tearing out large pieces of his lungs. Alastair was right; Dean did know what he wanted. He wanted Dean to pick up the knife again.

 

“Yes, Dean, you’re gonna say yes. Believe me, I know you can deal with me tearing you to shreds for a long, long while.” Alastair moved further down Dean’s prone form, and slipped his blade into Dean’s stomach again. Ignoring Dean’s moans and howls of agony, Alastair ran the knife down a jagged path, taking the blade past Dean’s hips, opening his abdomen from sternum to well past his navel. He sunk his hands into Dean and started pulling out his guts, piece by bloody piece.

 

“You can resist and fight the inevitable as long as you want boy, but the truth is, I hold the key. I know how to get you to do what I want.” Dean’s vision started to fade, and he knew he was reaching the end. There’d be a few seconds of peace, then he would be whole again, and Alastair would start all over. The hopelessness made him feel like sobbing. The brief moment of anger on Sam’s behalf was gone. All that was left was the endlessness and despair. “Say yes, Dean. Even if all you can do is whisper, I’ll hear. Say yes.”

 

Dean shook his head again. The torture was excruciating, but there was no way he was going to be fooled into handing it out again. He would lay here, and take it himself, but no way was he going to be the cause of someone else’s agony. Never again.

 

“Fine. Guess I will have to use my special key.” Alastair made an adjustment to the rack, and Dean found himself completely vertical. Across from him, also on a vertical rack, face bloodied, and shaggy hair in his eyes, was Sam. Dean sucked in a hard breath. He knew what was coming. Sam looked up, his hazel eyes meeting Dean’s. Dean could see untold amounts of pain in Sam’s eyes. It broke something deep inside of Dean.

 

“You love your little brother, don’t you Deano?  Never want to see little Sammy in pain, am I right? I know I am.” Alastair moved closer to Sam, and Dean caught sight of the vicious looking serrated blade in his right hand. “I know for instance, if I were to do this,” he ripped the blade across Sam’s midsection, and Sam howled in agony, “it hurts you as much as it does him, maybe more?” Alastair looked back at Dean, his eyebrow raised in question.

 

“No! Stop dammit!” Alastair smiled.

 

“I told you how much fun I intended to have today. Two Winchesters on my racks. More fun than I’ve had in centuries. Not to mention,” he continued, taking another deep slash across Sam’s belly, “I owe this one. He tried to kill me. Failed, of course, but the insult still burns.”

 

Dean was screaming incoherently at Alastair, and twitching miserably against his bonds, trying desperately to free himself. Sam was gasping in pain, crying out for Dean to help him, and Dean couldn’t do a damn thing. All he could do is watch.

 

“You can end his pain you know.” The voice was so quiet; Dean thought he had imagined it. Alastair turned and came to stand with his face inches from Dean. “That one little word, Deano, that one tiny little word and I’ll take Sammy off my rack. I’ll leave him alone. Just. One. Little. Word.” Alastair ran his hand down Dean’s face, caressing his cheek in a fatherly gesture. “You were my most favorite, my best student, and I have so more to teach you. I’ve missed you so much son, and I would gladly trade your brother to have you by my side again. Say it Dean. Say that one sweet little word.”

 

Dean drew in a shaky breath. He looked across at Sam, bleeding badly and barely hanging on. ‘Help me’ Sam mouthed. Dean looked at Alastair, defeat in his eyes.

 

“Yes,” he whispered.

 

“Yes what?” Dean closed his eyes, filled with shame.

 

“Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll do what you want. Just let Sammy go.” He hung his head, exhausted and past the point of caring anymore. If it helped Sammy, if giving Alastair what he wanted saved his brother, Dean would do it. No matter what.


	7. Chapter 7

“That’s right, boy, just like that. Slip the knife up under the ribs, and down to the hips. See what a lovely deep cut that makes?” Alastair moved his hand down Dean’s arm, and positioned Dean’s hand where he wanted it for the optimal cut. “Just like that.” Dean did as his master requested, trying to ignore the screams of the soul below him. He would do as Alastair dictated. He would hate it, but he would do it. Sam was depending on him.

               

Dean made the cut, feeling self-loathing fill his own soul. He hated himself so much. He tried desperately to think of Sam. He tried to picture a smile on his face, to remember the things that he missed so much about his brother. He had to hold on to Sam. Sam was the reason he had agreed to do this again. Dean had no problem destroying what was left of his soul if it meant keeping Sam safe from pain.

               

Alastair stood behind him, his arms wrapped around Dean’s waist like a lover, moving Dean’s hands where he wanted them to ensure the proper cuts were made, ensuring that the torture was that much more exquisite.

               

Dean was covered head to toe in blood. Some his own, but most was the blood of the soul he was ripping apart. He didn’t know where Sam was. All he knew was that he wasn’t there with them now, and for that at least, he was grateful. He did the job, quickly, without thought, praying futilely that Alastair would give him a break after, but knowing he wouldn’t.

               

“Excellent job, boy, you’ve done such beautiful work today.” Dean looked up at Alastair with dead eyes, not wanting the compliment and ashamed that he had earned it. “I’m so proud of you Deano. You slid right back into the driver’s seat like you had never left.” He cupped Dean’s chin in his clawed hand, and it was all Dean could do not to flinch. He had learned very quickly that resisting Alastair’s so-called affection resulted in brutal punishment.

               

“Would you like to rest for a while son?” Dean shook his head. He wanted a rest desperately but he had learned the hard way that asking for or agreeing to any kind of respite got him ripped to shreds. “Well my boy, look at the soul you just dealt with, tell me if he looks tortured enough.”  Dean didn’t want to. He may have gotten to the point where he enjoyed the torturing last time he was here, but he wasn’t enjoying himself now. Without thinking, he shook his head, closed his eyes, and turned away from the soul on the rack.

               

He regretted it instantly, as Alastair grabbed him by the top of his head, his hand gaining angry purchase in Dean’s hair. “When I tell you to do something, you do it remember?!” He threw Dean across the chamber, with a sickening thud as Dean’s head met the craggy stone wall. The blade in Dean’s hand clattered to the ground noisily. Stars in his eyes, Dean sunk bonelessly to the floor. “This is my domain, my kingdom, and favorite student or not, you do AS I say WHEN I say, do you understand me boy?” He grabbed Dean by the throat and shoved him back up the wall, holding him there, until Dean’s vision started to dim around the edges. “ _Do you understand me boy_?!” Alastair repeated.

               

“Ye…yes…YES!” Dean gasped, his throat on fire. Alastair released him, and he slid down the wall again, landing on his knees at Alastair’s feet. Alastair petted his hair like he was a well behaved puppy.

               

“Good. As long as you remember that. Now, on your feet boy, do I as I told you.” Dean wearily pulled himself to his feet, his head still spinning from the oxygen deprivation. He stumbled back over to the rack, where the soul he had been torturing was trembling, whimpering for help. As Dean grew closer, he was gripped with a deeper sense of unease. Something was very, very wrong here. He was getting such a weird vibe, almost like he knew the soul on the rack.

               

Then he saw it. The tattoo. The same one he had on his chest.

               

Bile rushed up into Dean’s throat. He was terrified, afraid to get any closer, but he had to know for sure.

               

Wet, hazel eyes stared up at him in misery. Dean’s heart was in his throat as he stared down at his brother. ‘What have I done?’ he thought. ‘ _Nonononononononononononono….’_

               

“Don’t hurt me anymore Dean,” Sam whispered, tears running down his cheeks, “please don’t hurt me.”

 

Dean backed away in a daze, shock and horror filling him. How had he not noticed who he was cutting up? He hadn’t seen the tattoo…surely he wouldn’t have done this? Not to Sam, not to his baby brother. No, this was not happening. It couldn’t be real.

               

“Oh, it’s real kiddo. This is what you are capable of. This is how far you can go. You’ll do anything I want, and you don’t care who gets hurt in the process.”

               

“No…you said…you promised…Sam…”

               

“Dean, I’m a demon remember? My promises are negotiable.” Alastair laughed at Dean’s distress, an evil, harsh sound completely devoid of any kind of mirth. “You’re mine, Deano, you do what I want. And I wanted this so badly. It’s the most exquisite form of torture. You torture Sam, which in turn tortures you deeper than any blade.” Alastair’s breath was hot in Dean’s ear. “And the beauty of it? There’s nothing you can do about it. Sam will despise you for eternity. You are as alone as you can possibly be.”

               

Dean turned and stared at Alastair, finding the demon with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He choked back a sob and backed away from his master. Not knowing what else to do, he turned and ran. He ran from the chamber, desperate to find somewhere to hide.

 

…

 

“Thanks, Professor.” Sam closed the lid on the curse box with the antique train spike inside. Amazing. He had thought this case was going to be a lot harder, but it turned out that it was simply a cursed object. All six students had touched it, leading them out to the train trestle, where they felt compelled to hurl themselves into the path of the oncoming train. Amazingly, Professor McMillan came from a very long line of hunters, and Sam had an ally right off the bat. It hadn’t taken long for the two of them to figure out that the six dead students had all been part of a research project involving Kansas rail travel and that all six of them had come into contact with the spike. Professor McMillan even happened to have a curse box lying around, and a family member, also a hunter, coming to pick it up.

               

If Sam hadn’t been so worried about Dean, so concerned for his brother’s mental stability, if Sam had had his head fully in the game, he probably would have thought the whole thing entirely too simple.

               

“Thank you, Sam. I just wish I would have put this together sooner. Lives would have been saved. I was pretty close to those six kids. They were sort of my pets, I guess you might say. Such a shame. So much talent, just…gone.” Regret lined the professor’s face.

               

“Hey, you didn’t know. At least we’ve managed to prevent this from happening again.” Sam packed up his gear, anxious to get back to the motel to check on Dean. He had left his sleeping brother six hours prior. He wanted to get some food, get something in Dean’s stomach before this not eating business turned into something more serious.

               

After a run through a drive through, Sam arrived back at the motel. He opened the door, food and sodas in hand, and stepped through, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. He frowned at Dean’s bed, surprised to find it empty. Setting the food on the table, he set his laptop bag in a chair.

               

“Dean?” he called into the darkness. “You here?” Sam heard a rustle and the sound of running water coming from the bathroom, and what sounded like a muffled sob. Concern filled him, and he rushed into the bathroom, not bothering to knock. The sight that met his eyes chilled him to the core.

               

Dean was huddled in the tub, the shower head on, spraying all over the place. Dean was soaked, the floor was soaked, everything in the bathroom was wet. Dean had his knees pulled up to his chest, and he was rocking back and forth, his new knife clutched tightly in his hand. He was muttering something in between sobs, and didn’t notice Sam at all.

               

Sam quickly moved forward, shutting off the cold spray, and knelt next to the tub. He gingerly reached for Dean, hyper aware of the knife, and the fact that Dean seemed completely unaware of his presence.

               

“Dean?” he said softly, “can you hear me?” Sam reached out for Dean, touching his shoulder. The next thing he knew, Sam was flat on his back in the water on the floor, Dean straddling his hips, knife pressed against his throat.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean stared down at the demon, putting continued pressure on his throat. The demon’s eyes widened in fear. Balling up his right fist, Dean crashed it hard into the side of the demon’s temple, dazing him.

               

Dean stood, shook himself. How did they find him, he wondered, he had found such an out of the way alcove. It was cold and wet, and Dean had pushed himself as far into it as he could. For the first time, he looked at his left hand, surprised to find the thrift store knife in his grip. How the hell had it come down here with him?

               

On second thought, he was glad to have it. It was comforting to feel the blade’s warmth tingle up his arm. But he had other, more pressing matters to deal with. The demon on the ground in front of him, for instance.

                               

_Kill him._

               

The voice was little more than a buzz in his head.

 

_Kill him. Look in the box. Use the needle. Kill him._

Kill who? Wait, what was going on here? He faltered, confused and disoriented. The stone walls blurred, and for a second he thought he was in a motel room. A jolt of warmth shot up his arm from the knife, and traveled further than ever this time. All the way up his arm, into his shoulder, his neck, until the power and warmth from the blade consumed him.

               

He forgot where he was, forgot what he was doing, forgot who he was.

                               

_You must kill him. Do it now. Check the box, use the needle. Use his belt. Secure him._

Following the mysterious voice, he made quick work of slipping the other man’s belt out of his jeans. He forced the arms around, and tightly bound the wrists.

                                               

“…D’n…” came a groggy whisper. “…what…what’s going on?”

 

He slammed his fist into the other man’s face again, effectively knocking the man out. He had to find the box. Had to find the needle. Standing, he noticed a passageway behind him. He turned towards it, his surety breaking again. It looked like…and then a flood of warmth.

 

_Yes. That’s it. Through there. The black box. It’s in the shining black box._

He stumbled through the passageway, and found a massive black trunk on the other side. Opening it, he found the shiny black box.

 

_Open it. Take the needle. Take the vial. Use it. All of it. Kill him. KILL HIM!_

Moving back into the corridor, he stared down at the man on the floor. What was he doing again?

 

_The needle. Fill the needle. Use it all._

He fumbled with the vial and the syringe, but he did it. Filled it to the top.

 

_Kill him. Use the needle. Kill him._

_Then kill yourself._

_Do it. Do it now._

Checking the syringe in his hand, he knelt beside the other man, preparing to deliver the fatal dose.

               

“Dean. Dean please don’t do this.” The man on the floor was begging him. He had tears in his huge hazel eyes. He felt…nothing.

               

Well, almost nothing.  He felt strange, like he was missing something, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He needed to do this. Drug the man on the floor, and quickly drag the knife across his own wrists. It would be quick. Almost painless.

               

But why? Why was he doing this? He wished for a clue, something other than the driving need to end his and the other man’s lives. He knew their lives were inexplicably intertwined, knew that everything in his past, everything he did, hell, everything he was, had something to do with the man on the floor.

               

Warmth, power, and something inherently more dangerous surged through his whole body, consuming him, filling him, every last part of him fusing with the blade.

 

_End it. End it now. End it. Do it. Kill him. Kill yourself. Do it!_

He couldn’t remember the man’s name, he couldn’t remember his own name, but he knew they were both destined to die, and to die together.

               

He just didn’t know why.

 

The cavern filled with a sudden light, so bright, so intense, so pure, he was afraid. He felt he had been caught doing something wrong.

 

A bright flash of stern, sad, blue eyes, and two fingers on his forehead, and everything went black.

…

 

Castiel helped Sam up off the bathroom floor.

               

“The Professor was a trap. The hunt was a trap. Sam, you must get Dean to Bobby’s. I’ve put him in a sleep deep enough to last the trip. He won’t dream anymore tonight. You need to go now.” Sam shook his head, still reeling from what had almost happened.

               

“Cas. Wait. What’s going on? What’s wrong with him?”

               

“I will explain at Bobby’s. Sam. They are coming. You must leave now.” Cas was already wrapping Dean in the covers from the bed, preparing to move him to the Impala. Realizing there were no other options, Sam quickly grabbed his and Dean’s duffels and started throwing things into them.

               

“Who is coming Cas?” Sam asked, never stopping, still throwing things into bags.

               

“The demons. They are trying to take him back. We need to get him to Bobby’s panic room immediately.”

               

“Then why not just zap us there? Wouldn’t that be faster?”

               

“I can’t. I need to stay, keep them occupied here. It’s important.” He turned to Sam, and Sam could see something like pain in the angel’s eyes. “Besides, right now, I am not…I am not strong enough. I wish that I could. It would make things easier.” 

               

“Cas…”

               

“No Sam, there is no time! You need to go now.” With that, Castiel reached down and scooped Dean into his arms as if he were nothing more than a child. Sam quickly grabbed the last few things, and ran out to the Impala, awkwardly fishing out the keys as he went. He opened the rear door for Cas, and opened the trunk and shoved all of his and Dean’s half-packed gear in.

               

“Go Sam. Get your brother to safety. Don’t look back.”  Cas steeled his shoulders, looking all the world like a bull in the arena, and Sam felt a deep sense of foreboding. He looked at his brother’s unconscious form in the backseat.

               

“GO NOW SAM!” Cas bellowed, and Sam jumped and fired up the ignition. He shifted into gear and burned rubber out of the lot, pointing the car north, and quickly leaving the motel behind him.

 


	9. Chapter 9

An hour and half out of Sioux Falls, there was a rustle of wings, and Castiel appeared in the passenger seat beside Sam. Sam jumped, and the car swerved slightly.

               

“I seriously hate when you do that.” Sam muttered.

               

“I am sorry. I do not mean to startle you.”

               

“What happened back there Cas? You said the hunt was a trap? I don’t understand what’s going on.”

               

“Dean is in danger. It’s vital we protect him. He can’t protect himself right now.” Sam sighed, running his hand through his hair.

               

“Cas…it was so weird. I don’t think he knew who I was. He was…scary.”

               

“Dean was hallucinating. He was unaware of anything around him. He was seeing something completely different.”

               

“Who is doing this to him? You said demons were coming.”

               

“I am going ahead to Bobby’s. We will have everything ready when you arrive.”

               

“Wait, Cas, tell me what’s going on…” another rustle of wings, and the angel was gone again. “Dammit!” Sam hit the steering wheel in frustration. “I hate when he does that!” He sighed, and looked in the rearview mirror.

               

Dean was slumped against the driver’s side rear door, head tipped back, mouth slightly open. He was more peaceful than he had been in days. Sam tried to think back, he was trying to figure out when all this had started. Was it Famine, had he caused this? He knew Dean wasn’t telling him everything. But still, even after, he had seemed ok, well “Dean-ok”, but now, what had changed? What was he missing?

               

Sam carefully thought back over everything that he and Dean had said and done in the two weeks since they defeated Famine. He thought about every place they had gone, every person they had met.

               

Then it hit him.

               

The thrift store. The creepy knife. How Dean didn’t seem to hear him at first when he asked about it. Sam remembered how determined his brother had been that he would buy the knife, no concern whatsoever about the price. The first horrible nightmare had happened that night. Then in the car at the diner, Dean was holding the knife, admiring it, not seeming to hear Sam when he asked if he was ok, and then he got that bizarre burst of energy that had lasted more than twelve hours after.

Last night, he had seen Dean tuck the knife under his pillow, in the spot of honor usually reserved for the 1911.

               

On the bathroom floor at the motel, it was that knife Dean had pressed against Sam’s throat.

               

“It’s the damn knife!” Sam said quietly. “Damn thing must be cursed! How the hell did I miss that?” He wondered if he should pull over, get the blade out of the trunk and examine it. Sam was shocked to realize he had never even touched it. Dean had actually made an effort to keep it to himself.

               

It had to be the damn knife.

               

In the end, though, Sam kept driving. Castiel said to get Dean to Bobby’s. He said it was important.

               

For once, Sam was going to do as he was told.

 

…

 

Sam walked up the stairs from the panic room, where Dean was now peacefully sleeping on the cot. Bobby wheeled into the living room with a mug of coffee, which Sam took gratefully.

               

“He still asleep?”

               

“Starting to wake up.” Sam took a sip, and looked at Castiel. “What the hell is going on Cas?”

               

“Do you have the knife Sam?”

               

“So it is the knife? Dammit I thought so. It’s in the car, I’ll go get it.” Sam set the mug on the table, and went out into the darkness to fetch the knife. They had left Kansas at four p.m. and it was well after midnight now. The fatigue brought on by the drive and the worry had Sam feeling like he could lay down and sleep for a couple of days, but first things first. He popped the trunk, and found the knife. It was thrown in with some of Dean’s clothes. Sam wrapped a tee shirt around it to avoid touching the metal directly.

               

Back in the house, Cas took the knife from him and examined it from every angle. He sighed heavily, and set the blade back on the table.

               

“It is as I feared.”

               

“What does that mean?” Bobby asked irritably.

               

“This blade, it was meant for Dean to find it.”

               

“Wait can we go back to the beginning here? Sam? What the hell is going on?” Sam sighed, not even sure where to begin.

               

“We were in a thrift store in Pennsylvania, I needed some jeans, and Dean was just fooling around while I looked. He found the knife there, and told me he was going to buy it, he didn’t care how much it cost. It was weird, it was like he was completely transfixed by the knife. He had the first really bad nightmare that night. I tried to ask him what it was about but he wouldn’t tell me. He’s barely been eating, he hasn’t been sleeping. So I thought I would find a hunt, try and get his mind off of things, but he was such a wreck, so yesterday morning, after breakfast, I gave him something to help him sleep while I went on the hunt alone. When I came back, he was freaking out in the bathroom, and then he…he…” Sam took a deep breath and said in a rush of words, “ _hetriedtokillme_.”

               

Bobby looked up at him, stunned into silence.

               

“Jesus boy,” Bobby said quietly. “So this damn knife, it’s cursed?”

               

“It is more sinister than that.” Cas said grimly. “The knife is a hell blade. A weapon forged in the Lake of Fire. Alastair made it. As an insurance policy of sorts.” Sam and Bobby stared at the angel.

               

“What the hell does that mean, Cas?”

               

“The blade was forged by Alastair to insure that his prize would be returned to him if it were ever to be taken from him. Dean is his prize. Alastair forged a piece of Dean’s soul into the blade.” Sam’s jaw dropped, his face white. Bobby said nothing, too shocked to think of a damn thing to say.

               

“So that demon sonuvabitch made a horcrux outta me?”

               

“Dean, what are you doing up here?” Sam regarded his gray faced brother.

               

“Wondering why I am only in boxers and a tee shirt and also, how the hell did I get to Bobby’s,  what the hell is Cas doing here, and oh, just curious, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN A PIECE OF MY SOUL IS FORGED INTO THE KNIFE?” Sam flinched.

               

“Dude all we know is what Cas just told us.” Dean slumped wearily into Bobby’s recliner.

               

“Ok so what do we do now? How do we get me out of there?” Dean turned tired eyes to Cas. “Any ideas feather man?”

               

“It is not a simple process to remove the piece of soul. Steps must be taken.”

               

“Ok, well let’s get on it. I need a decent night’s sleep and that damn thing is keeping me awake. What do we gotta do? Salt and burn?” He looked to each man in turn, expecting an answer.

               

“It is not that simple Dean.” 

               

“Ok so what do we do, how do we help Dean? How do we get rid of the knife Cas?”

               

“It is not something any one of us can do Sam. It is something that only Dean can do.”

               

“So then _what_ do I do Cas?” Sam could hear the obvious frustration in Dean’s voice.

               

“The knife must be returned to Hell, it must be cast back into the Lake of Fire.”

               

“And how is Dean supposed to do that?” Bobby asked irritably. “If the boy goes back down to the pit, how the hell is he supposed to come back up?”

               

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, no way in hell! I can’t friggin’ go back to the pit! Do I look like friggin’ Frodo?”     

               

“What are you talking about?”

               

“I believe Dean made a reference to The Lord of the Rings.” Everyone looked at Castiel in surprise. “Tolkien was also a prophet.”

               

“Well alrighty then. So next you’re gonna tell me Narnia’s a real place, and Mr. Tumnus is coming for friggin’ tea?!”

               

"It is true C.S. Lewis was a devout man, however, I do not believe he was a prophet.” Sam sighed loudly.

               

“Well now that we’ve established that, can we figure out how we are going to help Dean?”

               

“The knife must be taken to Hell and cast into the Lake…”

               

“Yeah you already said that. How do we make that happen?” Sam interrupted. “It’s not like Dean can just waltz back into Hell and drop the damn thing in.” Bobby looked up.

               

“Castiel. Can you return it to Hell?”

               

“No, my powers are greatly diminished. I would not survive the trip. And as I said before, only Dean can do it.”

               

“Dean can’t go back to Hell! How do you expect him to get back out? And why does he have to be there? Wouldn’t destroying the knife fix him?” Sam paced the floor, a force of angry energy. Dean watched through guarded eyes.

               

“Cas?” Dean asked quietly. “Why does it have to be that way? Why do I have to be there?”

               

If Castiel had been human, if he had felt emotions at all, his eyes would have filled with tears when he looked upon his human charge. Despite the long, dreamless sleep the angel had granted him, Dean still looked exhausted. His face was haggard, and dark circles had taken up residence beneath his dull green eyes. Castiel could almost feel the despair and the fear in Dean’s soul. If the angel had been capable of hate, he would have felt it intensely, would have directed it at Alastair. He would have hated that even after Dean’s release from Hell, Alastair was still playing games, still torturing Dean. The demon was dead, and still he tormented the man.

               

“The piece of your soul must be returned to you. If you are not the one to return the knife to Hell, that piece of your soul will die. If it dies, you die. You will die, and you will return to Hell.”


	10. Chapter 10

Sam was the first to recover his voice.

               

“Cas. There has to be another way…there just has to be.” He looked at his brother. Dean’s face was white, his eyes wet with unshed tears. He was trying to be strong, in the way that he always was. Sam could see right through him. Dean was terrified. There were no other words for it. He was terrified.    

 

“No. It is the only way. The blade is designed to return Dean to Alastair, through any means possible. Either he spills his life blood on the blade, or he returns the blade to Hell. Either way, his soul goes back to Damnation.”

 

“But a human can’t just waltz into Hell! He won’t get back out!” Bobby slapped his hand on the table. “I am not gonna sit here and let you two idjits send him back to the pit!”

 

“Well I don’t want him going back either Bobby, and I damn well don’t want him to die! I don’t know what we are supposed to do here!”

 

“We find another way to deal with that damn knife then! You love to look shit up Sam, I have a library full of hell lore! Start looking boy!”

 

“I have told you, it will not be a simple thing…”

 

“Then help us Cas! Instead of repeating yourself over and over again, help us find an answer!”

 

“I told you what needed to be done Sam.”

 

“Well it isn’t acceptable! It’s not going to happen! We are going to find another way! You can help, or you can watch, but either way, MY BROTHER IS NOT GOING BACK TO HELL!”

 

“I’m still here you know.”

All eyes turned to Dean, who was still slumped in the recliner.

 

“I’m still here, and no one has bothered to ask my opinion on this. I’m the one this actually affects.”

 

“Dean, you need to rest.”

 

“Right Sam, because I could lay down and sleep right now. ‘Cause why should I have any say in how all this goes down? I mean, it’s not like it has anything to do with me right?” Dean’s words dripped with sarcasm.

 

“Dean…”

 

“No, it’s fine. I’ll go hide back in the panic room.” He stood, glared at them all for a moment, and stalked out of the room.

 

“I should go talk to him,” Sam said quietly.

 

“Ya think?”

 

“I will go and seek answers. I will do my best to help find another way to resolve this problem.” A rustle of wings, and Castiel was gone again. Bobby looked at the knife, still gleaming on the table where Castiel had left it.

 

“I have a curse box this will fit in. At least keep the damn thing outta Dean’s hands for the time being. Don’t wanna have to actually lock him in the panic room. The idea is to keep the demons out, not keep him in.”

 

“Right. I’m going to go talk to him. Try and get him to at least attempt to rest.”

 

“Good luck with that.” Bobby wheeled himself out towards the kitchen, leaving Sam alone in the living room. With a heavy sigh, and a heavier heart, Sam headed towards the basement, trying to think of anything to say to Dean that wouldn’t sound like a tired platitude or an empty promise.

 

…

               

Dean was under the covers, blankets pulled up over his head. He was freezing. The panic room wasn’t known for warmth, and he was still just in boxers and a tee. Dean would’ve given a lot for a hoodie, sweat pants, and a warm pair of socks.

 

He shivered again, not sure if it was from the temperature or what he had just heard upstairs. After he got out, after Cas had pulled him from the pit, there was a long time where Dean fully believed he wasn’t safe, that he would go back someday. Now that he had become accustomed to being top-side again, it was beginning to look like his earlier fears had been accurate. Alastair had even told him, warned him that he wasn’t all there, that a piece of him was still in Hell. Dean hadn’t wanted to believe him.

               

There was a sound nearby, and he peeked out of his blankets to see Sam coming into the room.

               

“Brought you some clothes. I know you gotta be freezing down here. Got an extra blanket too.” Sam tossed the blanket on the bed, then set Dean’s clothes on a nearby chair. “Brought you a hoodie, sweats and some socks. Although I can get fresh boxers and a tee if you wanna come up and shower.”

               

“You are such a freaky psychic geek boy sometimes, I was just wishing for a hoodie.” Dean snatched the hoodie off the chair and yanked it on, then the sweats and socks. “Oh that is so much better.” He grabbed the extra blanket and spread it over the cot, then snuggled down into the covers. “Ah, warmth, sweet, sweet warmth.” Sam smiled as Dean burrowed back under the blankets.

               

“I’m sorry you have to stay down here. You want me to get another cot and stay down here too?”

               

“No, I’m good…I just wish someone would tell me what happened. How the hell did we go from Kansas to South Dakota? What happened with the hunt? I don’t even remember going to sleep, or even laying down, and next thing I know, I’m waking up here.” Sam ran a hand down his face.

               

“Do we really have to talk about this right now? You haven’t really slept in days, and you need the rest. Who knows what the next few days are going to be like.”

               

“You’re avoiding me. What the hell happened in Kansas, Sam?” Sam turned away from Dean.

               

“Not going to let this go huh?”

               

“Nope. Start talking.” Sam sighed, ran a hand through his hair and plopped down in the chair nearest the cot.

               

“Well, yesterday morning when we got up, I could tell you hadn’t slept. You looked like a zombie. I tried to convince you to stay at the motel and rest, but you weren’t having it. So I did something stupid. I dropped a couple of Benadryl into the coffee you were drinking while we were walking back to the motel. When we got back, you sat on the bed and passed out a few minutes later, so I stripped you down to your boxers and tee shirt and covered you up.” Dean glared at Sam for a moment, looked like he was going to say something, then gestured for Sam to continue.

               

“So I went to K State to do research on the hunt, which Castiel says was all a fake. I am not sure what he meant, he hasn’t found it necessary to expand on that yet. When I came back, you were freaking out in the bathroom. Cas showed up and knocked you out, we dumped you in the Impala, and I drove like hell to get here.”  Dean said nothing, but noted that Sam wasn’t meeting his eyes. He wasn’t getting the full story.

               

“Freaking out how?”

               

“Just freaking out…like you were dreaming and you couldn’t wake up. I couldn’t wake you up. I tried. I think it had something to do with the Benadryl. And then when you did wake up it was like you didn’t know me.”

               

“There’s still something you haven’t told me. I can see it. It’s written all over your face, and we should know by now that lying to each other always causes more problems. What aren’t you telling me Sam? What the hell happened in that motel room?”

               

“Dean what does it matter? Nothing that happened was your fault ok? Can we just leave it?”

               

“No.”

               

“Come on Dean!”

               

“No. Spill it Sam.”

               

“Ok. Fine. I found you in the tub, you were running the shower head, water everywhere and you had the damn knife in your hands. When I say you were freaking out, I’m talking knees pulled up to your chest, rocking bath and forth and mumbling like a schizo freaked out. Ok? You were losing it! What more do you need to know?” Sam stood and started pacing around the panic room. “Then when I tried to get through to you, you shoved me and I landed on my back in the water. Then Cas showed up. Can we be done with this now? I don’t really want to talk about it, and you really need to freaking sleep.”

               

“Did I hurt you?” Dean asked the question so quietly, Sam almost missed it.

               

“What? No, no you didn’t hurt me. I’m fine.”

               

“You’re fine?”

               

“Yeah.”

               

“Ok. Then who gave you the shiner?” Sam touched his cheek. He had completely forgotten that Dean had hit him. “I did that didn’t I? I hurt you.”

               

“No, Dean, look it wasn’t you. You didn’t know what you were doing. It’s ok.” It didn’t feel ok to Dean.

               

“Sammy, tell me the truth. Did I do more than punch you?” Sam sighed again. Dean was like a dog with a bone, and he wasn’t going to let this go.

               

“Dean. I don’t blame you, it wasn’t your fault and you couldn’t help it, Cas says you were hallucinating, so really, it’s not a big deal, and don’t get worked up like you do, it’s not like you meant to…”       

               

“Meant to what Sammy? Spit it out dammit!”

               

“…try to kill me…”

               

“What?”

               

“I know you heard me.”

               

“Sam…I tried…holy shit.” Dean’s jaw dropped, and he sat up on the cot, his face white, his eyes huge. “Sammy…”

               

“No. It wasn’t you. My brother would never do anything like that. That damn knife? It’s causing hallucinations. You were probably seeing a demon or something. The point is…”

               

“I almost killed you.”

               

“No! The point is, Cas did get there in time. Everything is ok, I am ok, we are going to figure this mess out…”

               

“I deserve to go back.” Sam stopped dead in tracks, shocked out of his pacing.

               

“What?! No you do not deserve to go back! How could you even think that?” Dean looked up at Sam, and a lone tear rolled down his cheek. Sam quickly moved to the cot, and wrapped his arm around Dean’s shoulders. His brother was shaking. “Dean. Cas, Bobby, and me, we are not giving up on you. We are gonna find a way to get your piece of soul back and put this behind us. Do you understand?” Dean made a noise like a muffled sob, and stared at the floor.

               

Sam slid to the floor and kneeled at Dean’s feet, and looked up, determined to get Dean to meet his eyes. “Dean. Dean look at me. I mean it, look at me.”

               

Green met hazel, and Dean was taken aback by the level of ferocity in his little brother’s eyes.

               

“Listen to me, and listen good. I am not going to let you go back to the pit. Understand? I got this. We are not letting those fuckers win. We are the Winchesters remember? What’s the only word feared in Hell? Winchester!” Dean gave Sam a watery smile.

               

“But…”

               

“No buts. We are going to win this! Understand…Jerk?” Dean couldn’t help it, Sam’s enthusiasm was catching.

               

“I understand. Bitch.”

               

“Good. Now go to sleep dammit.”

               

“Yessir!” Sam stood, and smiled down at Dean who had returned to his previous burrowed position. He was on his way out the door, when he heard Dean sleepily say, “Thanks Sammy.”

               

“Anytime big bro. Anytime.”

               

Sam headed up the stairs.

 

It was time to get to work.


	11. Chapter 11

 “Deannnnnnnnn….”

               

Somewhere in his subconscious, he heard the voice, the whispered drawl of his name. He chose to ignore it. He was peaceful, comfortable, warm and secure. Dean had finally reached a deep sleep, and it felt incredible. It had been days, and he was not going to let go of unconsciousness that easily.

               

“Deannnnnnnnn…”

               

Ok, now it was getting annoying. He was desperate to stay in his dreamless deep sleep. Dean had no interest in waking up, and no one could possibly have any good reason for disturbing him.

               

And that voice. It sounded…wrong.

 

“ Deannnnnnnnn…wakey wakey sleeping beauty. Come out and playyyyyyyy.”

               

Sighing, Dean shifted on the cot, stuck his head out from under the blanket, and warily opened one eye. The face that greeted him shocked him out of the bed and on to the floor.

 

“Alastair! How…how are you even in here? I have to be dreaming. I’m still asleep!” Dean scrambled backwards on his hands and feet until his back met the wall of the panic room. “This is all my head!”

               

“Maybe so. Doesn’t make it any less terrifying though, does it? A demon in Bobby Singer’s infamous and impenetrable shelter. It doesn’t really matter if I am in your head.” Alastair knelt in front of Dean, his face inches away. “Your heart is still accelerating, your breath is still becoming shallower, and you are still, dare I say it? Losing your mind with fear. You’re so very afraid of me. And you know, if I am just in your head, no one in your pathetic little family can really help you. Even your angel has been powered down. You’re alone Dean. And no one is coming to save you.”

               

Dean pulled his knees up into his chest and buried his face in his shaking hands. “No. No you aren’t real, I just have to wake up.”

               

A hand was stroking his hair, like Dean was some kind of pet, and he shuddered and pulled in on himself even more.

               

“You can’t escape what’s in your head Dean. And you heard the angel, you’re coming back home to me. All the new games we can play, and some of the old ones too, oh boy, I just cannot wait to get you back on my rack. And this time, you can beg and plead all you want, but there will be no getting off this time. You’re in for an eternity of sweet torture.”

               

“No. Sammy’s gonna…”

               

“Sam can’t do anything for you. He’s got one foot in Hell already. And don’t think the angels will be able to help you either. So alone Dean. So helpless. But you can end it. Get this all over with. It wouldn’t be that hard. I’ll even help you. You see, I have the knife right here, boy.”

               

Dean raised his head, his eyes wide, tears sparkling on his lower lashes. Alastair waved the knife in front of him. He could see a watery reflection of himself in the blade. Alastair lowered his voice, a note of almost sympathy in his drawling tenor.

               

“You’re tired boy. You’re tired of fighting. It would be so easy. I can show you.” He reached out, took Dean’s right hand and pulled it from his face, straightening his arm out. Alastair ran a finger from the crook of Dean’s elbow down to his wrist. “Make a long deep cut right there. You’ll bleed out faster. And then it will all be over. You can come home to me. I’ve changed my mind. I won’t put you back on the rack.” Alastair cupped Dean’s chin, leaned in and whispered into his ear. “You know I how I feel about you. I showed you in Hell. My favorite, my most special boy. Come back with me. Let me finish what I started, and someday, you’ll be as powerful as I am. You’ll have students of your own. Come with me Dean. Let me show you your full potential.”

               

His words were hypnotizing, and Dean was slipping further and further away. Alastair took Dean’s hand and set the handle of the blade in his palm and then gently wrapped Dean’s fingers around it.

               

“There you go boy. Come on, let’s make that cut.” Dean stared down at the blade in his hand, then stared at his still upturned forearm. Alastair was right. He was tired of fighting.

               

And it would be so easy. Going back was scary, but if Alastair wasn’t going to put him back on the rack…somewhere in the back of his head, a little voice whispered _demons lie_ and Dean hesitated. Was Alastair lying now? If he did it, if he killed himself, would Alastair hold up his part of the bargain? Or would Dean end up right back on the rack?

               

The intense heat of the knife rushed up his arm. He was aware of it, and had a flash of remembrance. Sam on the floor, Dean with the knife pressed against his throat.

               

Dean’s eyes widened.

               

“NO!” Dean flung the knife across the room. “No! I’m not doing this! I won’t let you do this to me!” He lunged to his feet, and tore out of the panic room and up the stairs. He had to find Sam. Sam _would_ help him. Somebody had to.

 

…

 

Sam heard Dean’s scream and raced to the basement door. Dean was running up the stairs like he was on fire. He ran straight into Sam like he didn’t even see him, and both of them fell to the floor.

“Dean! Dean it’s ok, I got you. I got you man! It’s ok, it’s ok!” Sam wrapped his arms tight around Dean’s shaking body, hugging him tightly right where they lay on the floor. Dean was shaking, tears streaming from his eyes.

               

“God Sammy, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I would never hurt you, I’m so sorry, please Sammy.” Sam wrestled them both into a sitting position, so he could look in Dean’s eyes.

               

“Dean it’s ok. I’m ok. I know you didn’t mean it…”

               

“And Alastair, he’s gonna take me back, he said he’s gonna take me back, I can’t go back, I can’t Sammy! Oh god, please help me Sam! Please don’t let him take me back!” Dean was hysterical, sobbing in Sam’s arms, his words a mess of half constructed thoughts.

               

“Alastair’s dead Dean, I swear it! I killed him, I’m sure of it. Cas said the knife would make you hallucinate.” Sam paused. “But Bobby locked it up…” Sam had a terrible thought. “Dean. Stay here. I need to check something in the panic room.” He stood, and Dean grabbed his ankle.

               

“No, Sam, he’s down there, he’ll hurt you, don’t go down there!” Sam gently pulled away.

               

“It’s ok. I have Ruby’s knife. Just stay here ok, I’ll be right back.” Bobby wheeled around the corner in his chair.

               

“Boys? It’s five a.m. what in blue blazes is goin’ on?” he asked sleepily. His eyes fell on Dean, leaning up against the wall, still shaking, his face wet with tears. “Dean? Boys, what happened?”

               

“Bobby, sit with him, I need to check something in the panic room.” Sam made his way down the steps, and Bobby moved closer to Dean. “Dean? Ya in there?”

               

“He came for me Bobby. He’s not going to let me go. He’s going to take me back.” Dean whispered.

               

“Who son? Who are you talking about?” Dean’s eyes were lifeless as he looked up.

               

“Alastair.”

 

…

 

Sam carefully made his way down the stairs, Ruby’s knife at the ready. He eased into the panic room, keeping his back against the wall as he inspected every inch of the space. The knife was on the floor, near the tangle of bed sheets and blankets that looked like they had been abruptly ripped off the bed.

 

Sam had seen Bobby lock the knife in the curse box. Sam had placed it on the uppermost shelf of the upstairs linen cabinet. And Sam hadn’t been to bed since arriving at Bobby’s five hours ago. He’d been drinking pot after pot of coffee, and reading everything he could get his hands on about Hell and souls. He was determined to keep the knife out of Dean’s hands. He’d been pretty confident about where he’d hidden it too.

 

So finding it on the floor of the panic room was shocking. It meant that the knife was more powerful than any of them knew.

 

They were in trouble here. Big trouble.


	12. Chapter 12

“So correct me if I’m wrong, but Alastair _is_ dead right?” Bobby asked as he set a cup of coffee in front of Dean.

               

“Yeah, I killed him. Castiel confirmed it. The bastard’s dead.” Sam sat across the table from Dean, nursing his own cup of coffee, books and notes stacked up around him like a fort. He grabbed one off the stack and starting leafing through the pages.

               

Dean was quiet, and sat staring into the mug like he hoped to find an answer in the depths of the hot java. He was still feeling very shaky. That last hallucination had been so real. Dean had almost done it, almost cut his own arm open, almost killed himself. Alastair had seemed so real to him.

               

“Didja find anything son?” Bobby asked Sam, as he also grabbed a book and starting turning the pages.

               

“Nothing. I can’t even find a previous mention of a so-called Hell Blade. But honestly, at this point the words are just swimming.”

               

“No wonder, didja even attempt to sleep last night?”

 

“No, I sat here reading. I have to find an answer.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, noting that it was starting to feel a bit greasy.

 

Dean abruptly shot out of his chair, and left the room. A second later, Sam and Bobby heard his feet on the steps as he went upstairs.

 

“Now, what was that about?”

 

“I don’t know. I’ll go up and check on him.” Wearily pulling himself out of the chair, Sam crossed the room towards the stairs.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Yeah, Bobby?”

 

“Convince him to rest some more. And you too, ya idjit, ya look like death warmed over.” Sam chuckled.

 

“Yeah, I’ll see what I can do.”

 

…

Dean was sitting on the edge of one of the twin beds, staring out the window into the burgeoning dawn. The soft pink light lit his face, making him appear, to Sam, far younger than he really was. He didn’t seem to notice as Sam entered the room, and he startled a bit as his brother lowered himself to sit beside him on the bed.

               

Sam didn’t say anything, just sat quietly with Dean watching the dawn. Dean’s breath hitched a couple of times, but he didn’t seem to be crying. The silence stretched on between them, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, just…there.

               

“Famine told me I was dead inside.” Sam jumped at the sound of Dean’s ragged voice. “He said that’s why I didn’t have an urge, a hunger, to fulfill. He said I was just empty inside. That’s why his presence didn’t affect me.”

               

“Dean…you’re not…he’s wrong…”

 

“No he isn’t.” Dean lowered his head, stared at his feet. “When the angels convinced me to torture Alastair, he told me part of me was still in Hell. You know what else he said?” Sam shook his head. “He said I broke the first seal. Me. I broke it. _And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break._ ” Dean recited bitterly. “That’s how I broke the first seal. And I knew it when I called you a monster. You weren’t the monster. You thought you were doing the right thing, that killing Lilith was the right thing to do. What about me? I broke the first seal, started the goddamn apocalypse because I was weak! Because I couldn’t handle the torture anymore! What kind of man does that make me Sammy? What kind of sonovabitch throws the whole world away to protect his own ass? None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for me!”

               

Dean was crying now, his whole body rocked by his bitter sobs. “Dad should’ve just let me die...” he whispered heartbrokenly. Sam’s own eyes were filled with tears. He hadn’t known. Had no idea, and Dean had been carrying all this around with him. Shouldering the burden alone, while all along he’d been doing his best to take the pressure off of Sam. Telling Sam that it was ok, that he wasn’t a monster, that Dean had been wrong about all that, when all along Dean believed himself to be the real monster.

               

“Dean…what all this comes down to, when you cut through everything and just…I don’t know, just look at it objectively, we were played. They played Dad, they played you, and they played me. We were all set up to do what they wanted. The angels, the demons, whatever they wanted done, they used us to do it. Which is why this stops now. I won’t be used as a pawn in this messed up game of chess anymore. I’m not saying yes, you’re not saying yes. I am not damning myself to hell with the demon blood, and you aren’t going down with that goddamn knife.” Sam tossed his arm around Dean’s shaking shoulders and pulled him in closer before continuing.

               

“I mean it Dean. I’m walking off the damn chessboard. I am not going to play this game Destiny apparently has set up for us. We are doing this our way, and if that means going up against angels and demons then so be it. And as far as you starting the apocalypse, well I damn well finished kicking it off, so really, I think we are pretty even in that department. Besides, you were being tortured, how long were you supposed to put up with that? Thirty years is one hell of a long ass kicking! Who knows, I probably would have folded way sooner!”

               

“Dad lasted a hundred years,” Dean retorted bitterly.

               

“Yeah well that’s Dad. We didn’t have the benefit of Parris Island ‘never say die’ training.”

               

“So now what? I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to get out of this Sammy. Every time I close my eyes, he’s there.” Dean shuddered, though the tears had stopped. “This last time, he was trying to convince me to cut myself. Even showed me where to put the knife so I’d bleed out faster.”

               

“Dean, he’s dead. And even if he wasn’t, even a high level demon like him would not be able to get into the panic room. I think that damn knife must have his memory or something worked into it. It really has Bobby and me freaked out that it was able to get from up here into the panic room. That knife…it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

               

“The knife is drawn to Dean. Wherever he is, the knife will follow.”

               

Both the boys jumped, Dean half falling off the bed, as Castiel appeared and spoke with no warning.

               

“I have startled you again. I am sorry.”

               

“It’s ok Cas,” Sam said, “but please tell me you have some news. We had a rough night, and I’m no closer to working out a solution.”

               

“I have one, but you are not going to like it.” Dean rolled his eyes.

               

“Well, I sure as hell don’t like the current plan, so lay it on me Cas.”

               

“I have found a way for you to return the blade to Hell, have your body nearby and subsequently leave Hell once the blade has been returned to the Lake of Fire.” Dean’s face lit up.

               

“Really? That’s great Cas! So what do I have to do?” Dean stared expectantly at his friend, hope in his eyes for the first time in days.

               

“I did tell you will not like it Dean.” Dean sighed.

               

“Fine. So tell me. What do I have to do?”

 

“Say yes to Michael.”


	13. Chapter 13

Dean floored the pedal, pushing his baby well beyond her limits, the engine screaming in protest. He knew he couldn’t keep this up, or he was going to do some serious damage, like blowing a push rod or even putting a piston through the block.

But he needed to get as far away from Bobby’s as possible.

Say yes to Michael. Go back to Hell. Those were his options. What the hell kind of options were they?

So while Cas and Sam argued about the lack of choices, Dean ran. Grabbed his keys and took off out the front door with nothing but socks on his feet. He didn’t have his wallet, no money, and only the weapons in the trunk. Not one of his better escape attempts to be sure.

He was so angry. The hopelessness, his own helplessness, drove him out of the house and into his car. Dean couldn’t just sit there and listen to them discuss his fate over and over again, especially when they acted like he wasn’t even there.

The morning was bright and cold, and as he headed east, the sun came up fully over the horizon, the light so bright it hurt his eyes, and he blinked to clear them. A silhouetted figure suddenly appeared in the road before him, and Dean stood on the brakes. Baby screamed some more as she went from well over 90mph to zero, screeching sideways on the blacktop as Dean fought desperately to bring her under control.

A loud pop announced the blowing of a tire, and the car went into a spin. Dean’s eyes widened in panic as he fought with the steering wheel. The figure in the road raised a hand, and the Impala stopped so hard, Dean was thrown against the dash. His forehead bounced off the steering wheel, and he instinctively reached up to feel the gash the wheel had left, blood coating his fingers. He shook his head slightly to try and clear the cobwebs.

The driver’s door was wrenched open and he was forcibly yanked from the car, and thrown roughly onto the blacktop. Dean sprawled gracelessly on the ground, squinting up at the person standing over him.

“Oh Dean, out here all alone and unprotected. Whatever were you thinking?” Her dark hair tumbled in soft curls over her shoulders as she knelt down, grabbing Dean’s chin in her hand and yanking his face up to hers. “Damn, you look like crap Dean.”

“Meg. God I hate it when you flirt with me.” He did his best to muster an intimidating glare, but it was difficult with the blinding sunlight in his eyes. “What are you doing here anyway? Thought Cas made a French fried demon out of you.”

“Aw, aren’t you just the cutest thing when you’re all mad and grumpy? Gotta say Deano, not real clever coming out here without your guardian angel or baby moose in tow. Especially knowing what I know.”

“Yeah, and what’s that bitch?”

“There’s a Hell Blade gunning for you honey. You see, souls don’t like be separated. And that lil ole piece of yours all wrapped up in the knife? It belongs to Hell, and Hell desperately wants the rest. Guess you’ve figured out that old Al left a lil piece of himself in there too, huh?” Dean grimaced and squirmed under her hold, and she used her telekinetic power to push him back down to the ground, pinning him flat on his back. “And my job is to come and get you, since you keep getting in the way of lil Sammy’s destiny. With you gone, Lucy will be able to get Sam to say yes. He’ll do anything to help big brother right? So all Lucy will have to do is convince him that saying yes will help you.”

“Sam’ll never fall for it,” Dean growled, “he’ll never say yes!”

“You keep telling yourself that sweetums. You know if you’re gone, he’ll do whatever he thinks it will take to help you. How do you think Ruby was able to turn him so completely? She convinced him to open that door, the one you made him promise not to open. Sammy did it because he thought it would help you. That if nothing else, he could buy you a little payback by killing Lilith. Without his big brother and conscience around, well he’ll do just about anything we want Jiminy!” She smirked at Dean. “So it’s time for you to go back. And I brought just the thing.”

Meg stood, still smiling at Dean, who was still helplessly pinned to the ground with her power. She smiled, and let out a low whistle, and Dean heard an answering growl. His blood turned to ice.

There just weren’t many things left in the world that Dean Winchester was afraid of. Flying sure, but he could handle it. Especially with something to take his mind off it, like alcohol, or a tranquilizer. He wasn’t fond of rats, but he sure as hell wasn’t afraid of them. Yeah, looking over it with a critical eye, most of the things he was afraid of were actually just extreme dislikes, not actual fear.

Hellhounds were a completely different story.

He was afraid. Terrified, completely and totally. He still remembered every swipe of the claws, every bite of the terrible strong teeth, he remembered being ripped to shreds. Dean could even remember being dragged into Hell.

So, when he heard that growl, then realized there were two of them, Dean, understandably, freaked.

Without even thinking about it, he screamed out for help, and it was only an instant before Cas was there, standing protectively between Dean and Meg.

“Ohhh hello there, Clarence. I shoulda known you’d show up. Go away, I have a job to do.”

“Well I have a Winchester to protect. I suggest you go away, Meg.” Meg smiled evilly at Castiel.

“Oh come on now, Clarence, you and I both know you are just about powerless. Other than tossing me into a ring of holy fire again, there really isn’t much you can do to me and you know it.” The hellhounds sitting at her feet growled, and while Castiel couldn’t see them, Dean could, and his completely white face proved it. Meg was still pinning him helplessly on the ground, and he squirmed futilely against the telekinetic restraint.

“Let him go. I won’t warn you again.”

“Like I said before, you winged moron, I have a job to do, and you’re powerless. Take a hike!” Castiel advanced on Meg, not seeming to care about his lack of power. An angel blade slid from his trench coat sleeve into his hand, and moving quickly, he dispatched both of the hellhounds.

Surprised, Meg backed up a few steps.

“I can still kill things the old fashioned way,” he said, a Dean-like smirk on his face, “and I do believe this blade would work on you as well.” He continued stalking towards Meg, who was practically running backwards.

“No need to be hasty Clarence! Look, I’m getting out while the getting’s good. But you can’t stop this from happening. Lucifer wants Sam, and he wants Dean in Hell. It’s only a matter of time.” Dean felt the pressure holding him down disappear and he quickly sat up. Meg was nowhere to be found, and he squinted up at Cas.

“Um…” he began weakly.

“Get in the car.” Cas ordered. Dean scrambled to his feet, and looked the Impala, noting the blown front tire.

“Don’t think we’ll get very far. I don’t know if my spare is even any good…

“GET IN THE CAR!”

“Ok, ok!” Dean walked over to his car, and watched, surprised, as Cas reached down and touched the tire, and instantly, the blown rubber inflated.

“Back to Bobby’s. Now.” Castiel’s tone left no room for argument, and Dean slid into the driver’s seat, and fired the engine. He slipped the shifter into reverse, and backed up, turning the car west towards Bobby’s house.

 Cas appeared in the passenger seat next to him, his face as unreadable as ever, and all was quiet in the car for the first few miles.

“What were you thinking Dean?” Cas asked quietly.

“I dunno. I guess I wasn’t…thinking, you know.” Dean sighed. “I guess I freaked. You haven’t exactly offered me the most appealing set of choices here.”

“It is not as though I mean to give you more pain. I know you do not wish to be Michael’s vessel. I do not really see another option though. Unless you want to return to Hell?”

“No! I don’t want to go back to Hell! But what the fuck am I supposed to do? If I say yes to Michael, I lose. I’ll lose everything. I’ll lose Sam, I’ll lose myself. Everything Cas! Don’t you get it? I don’t have a choice. No choice at all. Be heaven’s muppet, or burn in Hell. That’s all I have! I don’t know what to do.”

“If you were to say yes to Michael, you could have a list of conditions. People you want kept safe, conditions for what is to be done with your body when he no longer needs you. Michael is not…unreasonable. You would still have some choices. He could keep Sam safe you know. Michael could force Lucifer to choose another.”

Dean stared out the windshield as he drove back to Bobby’s. If Michael could keep Sam safe, away from Lucifer, well, in Dean’s mind, that was a game changer.

“Are you sure on that?”

“Yes. I have discussed it at length with Zachariah. Michael will do as you wish in exchange for the use of your body as his vessel.” Cas turned to look at Dean, observing the turmoil in the man’s eyes. “I know it is not the solution you wanted Dean, but I am not able to see another option here, other than going to Hell. And I believe you and I both know that is not the answer.”

Dean was quiet, and drove the rest of the way in silence. They pulled into the salvage yard, and Dean parked the car. He sat quietly for a moment more, then turned to Cas, his green eyes sad and serious.

“Ok. Summon Zachariah. I’m going to go in and tell Sam.” Dean pulled himself from the car, his shoulders bearing the slump of a defeated man. “Call him, Cas,” he repeated, “before I change my mind.”

               


	14. Chapter 14

“You’re kidding right? Say yes to Michael? C’mon Dean.” 

“Then tell me what other choice I have! You want me to go back to Hell?”

“No, of course not! But you said yourself…”

“I know what I said! What do you want from me, Sammy?! I don’t see any other option and excuse me for being a pussy, but I don’t want to go back to Hell!”

 

Sam huffed as he sank into Bobby’s beat up recliner, irritably running a hand through his hair. Dean stood across the room, staring out the window. His shoulders were slumped in defeat, his whole stance revealing the complete exhaustion he was feeling.

“I don’t want you to go back either, but what if Cas is wrong? Hell, maybe the damn angels planted the knife knowing it would come to this? I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Doesn’t matter now. The knife was made before Alastair died, so this would have happened eventually.” Dean kept on staring out the window, not feeling strong enough to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam didn’t want this at all, wanted to find another solution, but deep inside, Dean knew his time was running out. Even now, with decisions in place, and Cas outside summoning Zachariah, Dean could feel the knife calling him, his hands itching to pick it up and open an artery. How much longer would he be able to resist? The knife had already proven it could come to Dean, so how much longer would he be able to resist it’s call?

Sighing heavily, he closed his eyes, wishing for the days when the worst things he and Sam had to worry about was a vengeful spirit, or a stupid Wendigo. Easy hunts, black and white simple, with no morals, emotions, or prophecies standing in the way. He thought about his dad, wishing John Winchester was here with them now, with a solution, and his never-say-die attitude, strong and powerful, and larger than life.

Suddenly feeling like he can’t stand anymore, he’s surprised when a hand settles on his shoulder, and turns to find Sam smiling sadly at him.

“It’s not what I want, this solution you and Cas came up with. But if it’s what you need to do…well, I’m with you all the way, Dean.”

Dean feebly nods his head, and pushes down the lump in his throat. He’s grateful for Sam’s support, but there is no way he can put it into words. Dean just isn’t wired that way.

The lights buzz and Dean’s heart sinks.

Zachariah has arrived.

…

 

He strides into Bobby’s living room like he owns the place, looking at the shabby rooms with distaste, like Bobby’s home offends him just by existing. Sam moves slightly to the right, coming to stand between Dean and Zachariah, but Dean isn’t having it, and moves out to the center of the room to stand before the angel, trying desperately to call up a confidence and swagger he no longer possesses.

Bobby is nearby in his wheelchair, and Castiel stands behind Zachariah, his head tilted slightly. Dean wonders what the angel is thinking. Cas’ face is generally unreadable, even more so now. If Dean had to guess, he’d say it’s disappointment on his friend’s face.

He guesses he should be used to that. Seems he manages to disappoint everyone these days.

“So I hear you have a little Hell problem,” Zachariah says genially.

“Did you plant that damn knife?” Sam asked angrily. “Did you bastards do this to him?”

“Does it matter if we did? No, it doesn’t, but if it makes you feel better, no Sam, the angels did not plant the blade. Lucifer really wants your brother out of the way. He assumed with Dean back in Hell, Michael would be without a vessel and the fight would be over before it began.” Zachariah studied Dean. “Although I will say the blade did work to our advantage. But,” he continued cheerfully, “that’s neither here nor there. Dean, I understand you have some terms to add to your contract?”

“My…my contract?”

“Why yes. You are about to enter into an agreement with Michael in regards to the use of your body, and your wishes will be respected, as I am sure Castiel has already told you. To a point, of course.”

“Um…right…well there are people I want kept safe. Bobby of course, and Lisa and Ben Braeden. I want Castiel returned to his full power, and I want Sam kept the hell away from Lucifer.”

“Singer and the Braedens, done. Castiel will have to discuss his situation with the Host, and Sam? Well, Sam is already under contract as well. Sorry, can’t give you that one.” Dean jaw drops.

“But…but…Cas said…he said he’d discussed this with you already!”

“Well, of course he did, and I said, yes, Michael _could_ do it, I just didn’t tell Castiel that he _would_. You see the distinction?”

“You feathery sonovabitch! I would rather go back to Hell than let Sam say yes to Lucifer!”

“Dean, I won’t! I won’t say yes, I swear!” Dean turns to look at Sam, who’s staring back at him, and Dean can see the earnestness in Sam’s eyes, how he believes with everything in him that he won’t say yes, that he can resist Lucifer.

“Weren’t you the one telling me this was a bad idea?” Dean asked sadly.

“I don’t want you to go back Dean. If this is the only way…”

“No Sam! I am not gonna sit ringside in my own head and watch as Michael uses me to destroy you! I am not going to do that! I would rather burn Sam! Do you understand? I would rather burn.” Dean’s voice breaks, and he wipes furiously at his eyes. He turns to Zachariah.

“You tell your boss. Either he protects Sam or he doesn’t get me. Those are his choices. Hell is no longer a bargaining chip, because I will go back in a second if it means Sam is safe. You understand, you goddamn heavenly douchebag?”

Zachariah sighs dramatically.

“Fine. I’ll be back shortly.” He disappears in a rustle of wings.

“Well that went well,” Dean says sarcastically.

“He will return Dean. And he will likely have Michael’s approval. You and Sam should say your goodbyes now. I will wait on the porch for his return.” Castiel headed out into the hall, and a door opened and closed.

“Well this is just about the stupidest idea I’ve heard since you sold your soul boy!” Sam and Dean both jump. They had forgotten Bobby was still in the room. “There is no way this is gonna work out for either one of you idjits, you know that right? I can’t believe you morons are actually considering this at all!”

“What do you want us to do Bobby?” Sam yells. “I didn’t see you come up with a viable option either! We don’t have anything else to work with here!”

“Sammy…”

“No Dean! I’m fucking pissed! This is exactly what I was trying to avoid! I am tired of being a goddamn chess piece for these sons of bitches to toss all over the board! Goddamn it, we’re human beings, not some motherfucking toys for angels and demons to fight over in a fucking sandbox!”

Dean stares at Sam for a moment, completely nonplussed by his brother’s words.

“Damn Sammy, that’s a lot of f-bombs. You been practicing?”

“Jesus, Dean, you’re cracking jokes now? Really?”

“Pretty much all I got left Sammy,” he says quietly. Sam stops his angry pacing and turns to really look at Dean. His heart breaks, and all his anger drains away.

“Boys. There has to be something…” Bobby trails off.

“No. We’re out of time Bobby. Even now, standing here with you guys, it’s all I can do not to find that knife and end this. I don’t want this. I don’t. But dammit, I don’t want to go back. I can’t…” Dean whispers, and a tear rolls down his cheek. “God. I can’t go back.” Dean smiles at Sam, who’s also got tears on his face. “Sammy. No matter what, no matter what he tells you, you cannot say yes to Lucifer. Please, I am begging you, do not say yes.”

“I won’t Dean, I swear.” Sam rushes forward and wraps Dean in a bear hug, and for once, Dean doesn’t try to shove him away. He simply brings his arms up around Sam’s chest and returns the hug, clinging to Sam like his life depends on it.

“It’s gonna be ok, Sammy, it’s gonna be ok.”

They stand there for a moment more, then the power in the house buzzes again, and Sam feels Dean’s body tense in his arms. He lets go reluctantly, and he’s so close to Dean he can see the terror in his brother’s eyes.

“It _will_ be ok Dean, and I promise, I swear on everything important that I won’t say yes. I swear it Dean.” Dean nods, his throat too closed-off to say anything.

“Well, that was just lovely and oh so melodramatic, but if you two are done being great big emotional gits, perhaps we can discuss plan “B”. 

Dean and Sam both stare at the new arrival in shock. He’s a short, stocky man, with close-cropped dark hair, wearing a beautifully cut black suit, a cut crystal tumbler of scotch in his hand.

Crowley grins at the brothers.

“Hello boys,” he says in his brogue, “didja miss me?”


	15. Chapter 15

“That’s an even worse idea than anything we’ve come up with!” Dean glared at Crowley, his face red with apoplectic rage. “You are completely out of your mind!”

“I don’t know,” Sam mused, “it could work…”

“NO. FUCKING. WAY!”

“Dean, we need to at least consider it. I actually like Crowley’s idea better than you saying yes to Michael. With Crowley’s plan, we are still mostly in control.”

“NO! Bobby help me out here, please?!” Bobby sat in his wheelchair, a shrewd look on his face that Dean did not like at all. Not one bit.

“I dunno, Dean, it could work, and it’s not like we couldn’t detox Sam again. If Sam’s willing…”

“NO! You have lost your goddamn minds, we are talking about doping Sam up on the demon blood, and opening that door again! No no no!!!”

“Honestly, boy, do you think I would risk my own precious skin if I thought this plan would fail?” Crowley calmly sips from his tumbler again. “I have a vested interest in your success.”

“Oh right, cause you are doing this for us. Friggin’ newsflash people, demons _lie_! We are talking about hopping Sam up on demon blood, opening the gate and storming Hell! In what universe does this even _begin_ to sound like a good idea?!”

“I don’t know, the idea of storming into Hell and ending a bunch of demons actually sounds like a lot of fun right about now.” Sam grins.

“Nuts. Every last one of you. You’ve lost it. All of you.” He turns to Crowley. “So this is your big brilliant plan. Dope up my brother, go to Wyoming, open the damn gate, and storm Hell with your demon army and Castiel, and toss that knife back in the fire. Never mind we don’t have the Colt anymore to open the gate in the first place!  And that’s _if_ you can keep your demons under control, _if_ you can keep your hellhounds from eating me, _if_ we aren’t slaughtered the second we get in there, and oh, how about all the demons we are going to _release_ in the process?!”

“And you underestimate the loyalty of my demons. The release will be kept minimal. I have a plan for that, and as for my hellhounds, they are 100% loyal to me, and will do as commanded. I can open the gate without the Colt and I have no interest in seeing Lucifer or Michael win this battle, so it’s in my best interests to assist you instead. Personally, Dean, if I were you, the idea of walking into Hell and gaining some payback would be quite appealing.” Crowley grinned at him. “Quite the disappointment Alastair _won’t_ be there.” Dean’s frustration grows, and he turns to Castiel.

“Cas, please talk some sense into these guys!” The angel tilts his head thoughtfully.

“I am sorry, Dean, but I believe Crowley’s plan to be the best solution.” Castiel’s answer is more than Dean can take, so he grabs the first thing he can find, one of Bobby’s empty whiskey bottles, and flings it at the fireplace as hard as he can muster. It shatters into a thousand pieces, and Dean stares them all down, daring anyone to make a comment about his behavior.

“Look, I know you’re upset, but this is such a better idea. We get you put back together, and we get to blow up a chunk of Hell in the process. Why _don’t_ you want to do this? It’s gotta be better than being Michael’s vessel.” Sam puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders. “And I’ll be ok. I can handle the detox.” Dean opens his mouth to reply when the power in the house buzzes again.

“Shit. Zachariah.” The angel is back, and storms into Bobby’s living room. The first thing he sees is Crowley, who is smirking at him over his tumbler of Scotch.

“What is that filthy _abomination_ doing here?” he growls.

“Just presenting the Winchesters with a far more appealing way of dealing with Dean’s little… _problem_.”

“We have a solution.” Zachariah beamed at Dean. “He’s going to say yes to being Michael’s vessel.”

“What about Sam?” Dean asked.

“Well, Michael has agreed to protect him from everything and everyone with the exception of Lucifer. As I mentioned before, your brother has his own destiny, and we can’t interfere too much.” Dean shook his head.

“So basically, no dice.” Dean sighed, and thought for a moment. Maybe Sam was right, and at any rate, he thought he would rather see him go through blood detox again than be Lucifer’s vessel. “Well then, no deal.”

“What?! Have you lost your mind? We had a deal!” The lights in Bobby’s living room flickered under Zachariah’s wrath.

“Yes, well I made them a better deal. The Winchesters are choosing…Me!” Crowley smirked again, clearly enjoying making the angel nuts. Zachariah was reduced to sputtering, and he didn’t notice that Castiel had slipped away. Sam grinned at Zach, and Dean noticed the blood on Sam’s hand.

“Hey Zachariah,” Sam growled.

“What?!”

“Get lost!” Sam slapped his hand down on the symbol Dean had just noticed was on the table and he wondered when Sam had put the angel banishment symbol there. A flash of intense light, and Zachariah’s scream, and the angel was gone.

“Very nice, Mr. Moose, wish us demons could make use of that nifty little symbol.”

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure it was going to work. Demon blood and all,” Sam explained. There was a rustle of feathers, and Cas reappeared.

“He will not stay away long,” he warned. “We need to move, and move now.” Crowley held out a piece of paper.

“Bring your pets here, and we’ll get this show on the road. I’ll provide Sam’s libations.” Cas took the paper, and Crowley raised his glass and winked at the boys. “Cheers.” He vanished.

“Well guess you boys oughta git. I’ll hold down the fort, got a whole lotta anti-angel symbols to paint on this place.”

“You really think this’ll work?” Dean huffed. Sam grinned as he started tossing weapons in a duffel bag.

“Guess we’ll find out huh?”

 

…

 

Dean, Sam, Castiel, Crowley, and thousands of demons stand in front of the Wyoming Devil’s Gate.

Dean and Sam are armed to the teeth. Dean has his Colt 1911, and various other knives and guns tucked in at strategic places on his body. Sam has Ruby’s knife, and a CamelBak of demon blood. They both have multiple squirt bottles of Holy Water running bandolier-style across their chests.

Sam is calm, dark and quiet. He’s got that look on his face again, the one Dean hates. The one that says “ _hey, I’m doped up on four gallons of demon blood_.” His pupils are almost fully black, and Dean knows once things get moving, the rest of his eyes will likely blacken as well. Dean hopes he doesn’t have to see it.

Cas turns to look at Dean, his blue eyes searching his charge’s face. For what, Dean has no idea.

“Are we ready?” calls Crowley, and Cas steps closer to Dean.

“Once we are inside, you will be able to use this against the demons.” He hands Dean the Hell Blade. “Since you are the true vessel of Michael, the piece of your soul forged in the blade will enable the knife to kill demons.”

“Ok.” Dean looks at Sam. “You sure you can handle this Sam?” Sam’s almost black eyes glitter as he grins at Dean, and the smile leaves a bad taste in his big brother’s mouth.

“Yes. I’m ready.” Sam turns to face the gate again, and Dean gets his first surprise.

“Open the gate Sam,” Crowley orders his brother, and as Dean watches in shock, Sam lifts his hand, focuses on the gate, and the tumblers on the lock begin rolling into place. Turning to look at his brother, Sam smirks at the look on Dean’s face.

“I’m a parselmouth,” he tells him, and Dean is too bemused to reply.

“Containment crew, prepare yourselves!” Crowley bellows, and hundreds of demons move into place with fire hoses connected to water tanks filled with salted Holy Water.

 _This is it_ , Dean thinks, _we are really fucking doing this_.

The last tumbler in the lock clicks into place, and for the second time in Dean and Sam Winchester’s lives, all Hell breaks loose.

Literally.


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

The first wave of Crowley’s demons swept into the cloud of black smoke pouring from the Gate. To Dean, it looked like nothing more than two clouds of smoke combining, but judging by how the ground beneath him was shaking, it was so much more.

Sam was also moving forward, his hand outstretched, his chin tucked and his brow lowered. His face was a mask of total concentration, and the more corporeal elements pouring out of the gate were falling before him. Crowley’s hellhounds swarmed around his little brother, scampering like ghoulish puppies, ripping other demons to shreds, gleefully finishing anything that Sam missed.

Dean was frozen in place, knowing he should be moving forward as well, but the terror that gripped him was paralyzing. He could see the red walls, the flicker of eternal fires and he simply couldn’t move.

“I am here Dean. I will be with you for the entire battle. We need to move…NOW.” Dean nodded at Cas, and buoyed by the determined look in the angel’s eyes, took his first step forward.

Sam was several yards ahead now, and Dean noticed he had lowered his hand but demons still fell in his wake. Apparently he could kill them now by simply thinking them to death. He turned and grinned evilly at Dean, and the older man was dismayed to see full-on blacked out eyes.

Cas was moving faster now, and Dean realized he needed to keep up. He drew his blade just as a demon rushed him, and quickly swiped it across the demon’s throat…at least he thought it was the throat. He must’ve done something right, because he saw the tell-tale flash of light and the form hit the ground and didn’t move.

He heard agonized cries behind him as the demons manning the water tanks opened the lines. Crowley breezed past him, swinging, of all things, a humongous Scottish Claymore. The hilt sparkled with rubies, the metal itself was deeply burnished. He swung and swept through three or four demons in a single swipe.

Dean would’ve have laughed if he hadn’t still been so freaked.

More demons swept towards him and Castiel, and he marveled at Cas’s efficiency in dispatching demons with the angel blade. Dean himself made several more kills, and the fear was starting to dissipate as he slipped into fight mode. He was, at his very core, a highly trained soldier, and his training took over and Dean turned into a deadly skilled fighting machine.

“There!” Cas yelled, pointing forward.

The Lake of Fire glittered, lava and flame undulating like some nightmarish brook. Dean made it his focus, determined to get there and get rid of the damn knife once and for all.

A large demon swept down on him, but Dean was in his element now, and he thrust upward into the beast’s stomach. The demon doubled over in agony and Dean drove the blade deep into its neck. Sam came out of nowhere, sucking on the straw of the CamelBak, and Dean watched as five demons fell where they stood.

“Do it Dean! Get rid of the fucking thing!” Sam moved ahead of him, clearing the path to the lake.

The demons were determined to keep him from getting there, and quickly surged back around Dean, effectively cutting him off from both Sam and Cas. Dean swept out with the blade, and snatched a bottle of holy water from his bandolier, spraying it in every direction. He used every part of his body to fight, legs kicking out, hands and arms swinging the blade and the holy water, mouth running a steady stream of curses and insults.

Dean broke through the line and ran flat out for the lake. Cas was right behind, taking down the demons trying to stop him from getting there. Sam and Crowley circled back around finishing off the stragglers.

Dean climbed up onto a rock, and raised his arm to throw the blade in.

A surge of fire ran up his arm, into his neck, through his shoulders, and down through the rest of his body. The knife did not want to leave him. Dean stumbled off the rock and fell to his knees, pain screaming through his whole body.

“Dean, Dean, Dean. I’m disappointed.” Dean looked up, and despite the miserable heat of Hell, his blood turned to ice. Alastair smiled down at him. “You really didn’t think it would be this easy did you?” He reached down, and cupped Dean’s chin. “You’re back, and I am not letting you leave.”

“N...no…no!” Dean struggled to get away from Alastair, but another agonizing blast of fire doubled him over in pain. He screamed.

“Yes, scream my son. You always did scream so beautifully.” Dean fell onto his side, the pain so intense that he curled into the fetal position. He was helpless, and he realized they had failed. His baby brother, Cas, they were both going to die down here.

Suddenly, bright blue eyes were at his side, and he felt the knife ripped from his hand. Alastair screamed and vanished, and Cas was helping him to his feet. They both watched in silence as the blade melted back into the fiery lake.

A large orb of intense bright light slowly rose from the center of the lake.

As he watched, the orb moved closer to him and he couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. Then it did the damndest thing. The orb shot forward and slammed itself into his chest.

Dean gasped, the pain so intense he was sure he’d die from it. His arms flew out helplessly, his back arched, and he screamed and screamed.

Sam watched in horror as his brother’s body seemed to glow, Dean’s screams still filling the cavernous space. Killing more and more demons, he rushed forward, determined to get to his brother.

There was a blinding flash of light, then an intense blast wave emanated from Dean, and everyone and everything standing was blown off their feet.

Pulling himself back to his feet, Sam saw several demons making their way to where Dean lay, unconscious and helpless on the ground.

“CAS! GET DEAN!!!” Sam screamed, turning to fight the demons doing their best to surround him. He took the last hard pull of demon blood from the CamelBak, but he was weakening, and the demons knew it. They couldn’t fail now, not now, when they were so close to getting back out of here, Dean finally put back together.

A trench-coated blur streaked past him, and Sam quickly followed after Castiel, Dean thrown over the angel’s shoulder.

“LET’S GO! MOVE IT!” bellowed Crowley, brandishing his insanely huge sword. Sam unsheathed Ruby’s knife, and pulled a bottle from his bandolier. His powers were failing, time for more traditional weaponry. All he had to do now was keep his total and complete exhaustion at bay.

Crowley and Sam fought their way through the crowd of demons near the gate, slashing and hacking at anything that got in the way. They had to clear a path for Castiel, who had fallen back, pushed from the gate by the surge of demons trying to get out.

“CUT THE DAMN HOLY WATER!” Crowley screamed, and Sam pushed forward again, shoving more demons out of the way. He managed to get a hole in the line open and forcefully shoved Cas out of the gate. Sam quickly followed.

Sweeping his Claymore in wide strokes, his hellhounds chawing on anything in the way, Crowley also fought his way out through the gate. Once he, Sam, Cas, and Dean were clear, his demon army turned on the holy water again, forcing the demons back into the gate.

Cas gently lay Dean on the ground, then turned to help Sam shut the gate, standing in the never ending flow of holy water. It took all their strength, but at last the doors slammed shut, and the lock rolled back into place.

Everything stopped. Chaos became order, noise became silence.

Sam leaned back against the gate, desperately trying to catch his breath, and he slid down the front of it, coming to rest on his butt in an icy cold puddle of holy water. He was too tired to care.

“So did it work? Is he back together?” he asked Cas, who was carefully examining Dean.

“Yes, I believe it did.” Sam nodded, then locked eyes with Crowley.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“Don’t mention it. End Lucifer and we’ll call it even.” He smirked and turned to leave.

“Cas? Why isn’t he waking up?”

“He will when he is ready. I will take you back to Bobby’s now.” Sam nodded again, and shakily pulled himself to his feet.

“Let’s go then.”

Cas reached out and touched Sam’s forehead, and when he blinked again, he was standing in Bobby’s living room, Cas behind him with a still unconscious Dean in his arms.

“Oh thank god, you idjits didn’t get yerselves killed!” Bobby rolled into the living room, as Sam sank wearily into Bobby’s recliner. He hadn’t slept in more than forty-eight hours, and he was really feeling it now. “So what happened? Is Dean ok? What’s going on Sam?”

Sam huffed, and muttered “tell you tomorrow” and was asleep a second later.


	17. Chapter 17

There was soft warmth on his face, and he could smell mountain spring fabric softener and coffee. He was laying on crisp sheets on a soft mattress, his head resting on a perfect pillow. He was comfortable, and cozy, and he felt safe for the first time in a long time. He was also feeling incredibly well rested.

Dean opened his eyes, and was blinded by bright sunlight. He grunted and rolled over. Hearing the rustle of paper, he looked up to see Sam sitting in a chair by the bed, a mug in his hand and a newspaper in his lap. He smiled at Dean.

“Morning.”

“Ya think?” Dean grunted and eyed Sam’s mug, sure that’s where the coffee smell was coming from. “Where’s mine?”

“Uh, your stomach probably isn’t ready for that.” Dean was about to ask why, when he suddenly noticed the IV port in his left hand. A further survey of his body led to the discovery of a catheter as well. He was in Bobby’s house, but hooked up like he was in a hospital.

“What the hell?”

“Dude, you’ve been unconscious for almost a week. Couldn’t let you get dehydrated, so Bobby called a nurse friend and she hooked you up. Literally! You’ve been trying to wake up for about four hours now.”

“I don’t remember anything past storming Hell. Ha, that sounds funny. So did it work?”

“Cas says it did. You feel any different?” Dean thought about that. He was definitely feeling rested, and it had been quite a while since he actually felt like he’d gotten enough sleep. So that was an improvement at any rate.

“I’m friggin’ hungry!” Sam laughed.

“I’ll bet. I can go get you some broth or something, you’re going to have to start slow ok?” Dean nodded.

“Can we get the catheter out of my…you know.” Sam laughed again, and shook his head.

“You’re gonna have to wait for the nurse to come back today. That’s way above and beyond my responsibilities as your brother, trust me.” Dean scowled. “I’m going to go get you some broth and water. Chill out, ok?”

“Ok. Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You all detoxed again?”

“Yup. I’m fine, been taking care of you the last few days. It went a little easier this time, maybe because I drained all my powers in Hell. Who knows? Anyway, be right back.” He slipped out of the room, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts.

He stared up at the ceiling, tentatively feeling himself out, seeing if he could feel the difference between now and before, when part of him was missing. There was definitely a sense of peace that hadn’t been there before, and Dean realized how much better he really felt.

His stomach growled, and he smiled. Damn he was hungry. Really hungry. Like he hadn’t eaten in a week hungry.

Dean really wanted to get out of bed though. He hated laying there, helpless, while life went on around him. Deciding Sam was taking too long, he braced himself, took a deep breath, and pulled the catheter out.

“Ow ow motherfuc…” he groaned. But the damn thing was out. Triumphant, he sat up on the bed, searching out his clothes. There were sweats and a tee on a nearby chair, and he snatched them up and pulled them on.

Getting out of bed was another thing entirely, and after a few false starts, he was on his feet, totally wobbly, but still standing. Now all he had to do was make it down the stairs. He made it into the hallway, a bit shaky but still standing.

The smell of coffee wafted up the stairs, making his mouth water. He thought he caught the smell of bacon too.

“I am Dean Winchester. I am a badass. I can make it down a damn set of stairs.” Chanting that little pep talk to himself, he carefully made his way down the steps, gripping the banister tightly. Reaching the bottom, he eased around a corner, and caught sight of Sam and Bobby in the kitchen. They were joking with each other, completely at ease, and Dean smiled.

Everything felt so good. Peaceful. He could get used to this.

Sneaking carefully into the room, he sat at the table. Neither man noticed, Bobby was digging for something in the fridge and Sam was stirring a pot on the stove.

“I want coffee!” Dean demanded, very much enjoying the startled exclamations.

“What the hell are you doing outta bed boy?”

Sam shook his head. “You could have fallen down the stairs! Dean, I told you the nurse was coming!”

“I got tired of lying around. Hell, I’ve been in bed a week right? Gimme some coffee and I don’t wanna hear any crap about my stomach. Hand it over Sasquatch.” Sam sighed and shook his head, but went ahead and poured his brother a mug.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya jerk.”

“Bite me, Bitch.”

“Do I need to separate you two idjits?” Bobby chuckled as he wheeled past Dean, patting his shoulder as he went. “Good to see ya up, boy.” Dean smiled in return.

He sipped the hot coffee, enjoying the warmth of it flooding his stomach. Sam set another mug in front of him, full of yellow liquid. Dean sighed.

“I need food.” Sam huffed, but pulled a bowl out a cabinet. Grabbing a box of Rice Krispies, he made Dean a bowl of cereal.

“Here. You hold this down, and we’ll talk.” Dean glared at the bowl.

“I want bacon and eggs, bitch.”

“Not happening, jerk.”

“ _Bitch_.”

“ _Jerk_.” Sam grinned and Dean returned the smile. It was shaping up to be a great day.

All was as good as it ever got for the Winchesters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this is the end of my first ever SPN fanfic.   
> It's not perfect, but I am still proud of it. There's some awesome BAMF Cas moments, and some sweet Sam and Dean moments.   
> It's clunky, and holey, and if you made it to the end, thanks. Someday, I may rewrite it.


End file.
